


Another Trip Around the Sun

by isaDanCurtisproduction



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Assumptions, Confusion, Drunk Sex, Drunken Kissing, Getting Together, Humor, Lies, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, New Year's Eve, New Years, Secret Crush, Secret Identity, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-09-13 18:46:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9136876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isaDanCurtisproduction/pseuds/isaDanCurtisproduction
Summary: Peter likes Wade. A lot. Like-likes him. But this is a problem, see? Because Wade has no idea who is behind the Spiderman mask.And then they go to a New Years Eve Party hosted by Tony Stark, get completely wasted, and suddenly this does not seem to benearlyas much of a problem as Peter originally thought. Because Peter always makes thebestdecisions while drunk, don't you know? Especially when his decision involves getting into Deadpool's pants.





	1. December Thirty-first

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Years guys! Here's hoping that 2017 will be better than 2016. My New Year's resolution is to write more fricken fanfictions and hopefully finish this!

New Year’s Eve

Peter got in to Tony Stark’s infamously fabulous New Year’s Eve party, held every year in the glittering Avengers Tower, on a technicality. Okay, so the technicality was that he was Spiderman, and there had been a blanket invitation to every super in New York to the party, but it was still a technicality. If Tony Stark, world-famous scientist, billionaire, former CEO of a fortune-500 company, and _Iron Man_ had known that Spiderman was really dinky ol’ Peter Parker, photographer for the Daily Bugle, who would sell his soul and left testicle for a job where he didn’t have to pawn off pictures of himself in spandex to a sadist with a Hitler ‘stache, well, there was no _way_ that Peter would have been let in.

But he was. Let in, that is. Through the window.

What else was he supposed to do on New Year’s eve? Aunt May had the late shift at the hospital. It wasn’t like Peter had a great abundance of friends. At least, not as Peter. Not anymore. And at least at Tony Stark’s party there was guaranteed to be good booze. And other superheroes. His people.

His _people_.

And Deadpool was there, and Peter might have been nursing a crush the size of Wisconsin on the killer for hire, so there was all the reason he needed. To show up at a New Year’s Eve party in his spidey-suit. Amongst lots of supers who did not, in fact, have secret identities. Not amongst each other. 

Peter looked around. The Avengers were scattered amongst other heroes and their civilian friends alike. Pepper Potts was in a corner with Clint Barton, telling him a story that required making blasting motions with her hands, as if imitating Iron Man's hand repulsors, and crossing her eyes. Clint was laughing so hard he was almost doubled over. Bruce Banner was making small talk with a man and woman whose voices Peter recognized as belonging to Ant-Man and the Wasp. Thor was trying to arm wrestle a combination of the Falcon, War Machine, and Power Man. Peter recognized Jessica Jones nursing a bottle (a whole bottle!) of Jack in the corner while listening with great interest as Natasha Romanov and the Vision took turns trying to one up each other with fantastically witty remarks, all said with flat, even expressions. Steve Rogers and Tony Stark himself were chatting with Foggy Nelson, of the law firm Nelson and Murdock. Matt Murdock was busy elsewhere, talking with Scarlet Witch, whose first name Peter still had yet to learn. There were others, lots of others, scattered across the room, but Peter was struck once more by the lack of masks he was seeing. Did everybody else know each other? That thought made him inexplicably sad.

“Awkward,” Peter muttered as he looked around the room. “Well,” Peter said to himself, “this is what you get for having to protect your loved ones, and _also_ wanting to get wasted on ritzy booze.”

“If you are looking to partake in the libations,” said a British voice that sounded like it was coming from the ceiling, “might I suggest beginning the evening by the open bar?”

“Uh,” Peter said, “am I hallucinating a helpful yet bodiless Jeeves?”

“Not at all, Mister Spiderman,” said the British voice in a neutral tone, a voice with only the barest hints of affability, “I am merely Jarvis, an Artificial Intelligence created by Mister Stark.”

Peter’s eyes grew wide beneath the mask. “Woah. Really? Really-really? I didn’t know anyone was—”

“Spidey!” shouted a voice, interrupting Peter mid-squeal, and Peter whipped around to see Deadpool bounding towards him. He was wearing his costume, in its full katana’d glory, and that made Peter feel slightly better about being wrapped in his own spandex. Peter's shoulders unbunched with something like relief. Something he was unwilling to examine too closely.

He was at least willing to admit, to himself, that he had a crush on the merc. The thought that his feelings for the man exceeded that, were something larger, more effervescent, well, he was going to ignore that thought for as long as possible.

He knew Deadpool returned the sentiment, at least on a base level. Wade Wilson never gave up an opportunity to compliment, Peter's, ahh, assets.

Or, well, _Spiderman_ 's assets.

That was part of the problem. No one, absolutely no one knew that Spiderman was Peter Parker. And Peter was absolutely positive that if Wade ever found out Spiderman was such a nerd he'd have less than zero chances with the man.

And he _liked_ Wade. Wade was funny and generous, even under the guise of being rude. Not that he wasn't rude, because he was, but he was kind too. The Merc had grown on Peter. Barely constrained toleration for the un-aliver had given way to something like friendship after long nights taking down baddies together, and then sitting on roofs eating tacos or burgers or hotdogs or gyros or sweet and sour chicken or anything else, and everything in between. They were friends. They could hang out (at Wade's apartment) and watch Golden Girls or the Bourne series or make fun of all the sexism and lack of realism in the old James Bond movies. Sometimes they played video games, or even board games (Wade was always winning at Clue, which Peter was a little salty about, but he could whup Wade's ass in Trivial Pursuit any day of the week). But the best part was that Wade never asked about his secret identity. Peter felt completely comfortable, flopped upside down on Wade's couch, a controller in his hand, completely decked out in his spandex and mask because Wade did the same. He'd sit in his own house for hours with his katanas strapped on and his mask pulled down to his nose. Peter kept his there as well. All the skin that they'd ever seen of each other was from their noses to their chins. Just enough space to give their food access to their mouths. As much as the fact that he'd never seen Wade's face bothered him, he was also eternally grateful that Wade never pushed the issue, never even mentioned it. 

The fact that he knew Wade's name, but Wade didn't know his was a great source of internal contention, but Wade didn't seem to mind. He never even brought it up. Peter wasn't sure how he should feel about that.

"Spidey!" Wade screeched again, this time from much closer, right beside Peter's head, jolting him from his thoughts.

Peter shook his head, trying to push his thoughts to the back of his mind. He was at a _party_ , for gob's sake. He could worry later. Right now he was there for booze.

“Here,” Deadpool said, shoving a glass of what Peter assumed was champagne into Peter’s hand as he skidded to a stop in front of Peter. “Drink this, it’s New Year’s Eve and you don’t even have a alcohol on you. I am ashamed, deeply ashamed,” he chastised.

“I did just arrive,” Peter protested, but willingly pushed the lip of his mask up over his nose and downed the glass of champagne (he’d need to drink a lot very quickly if he wanted to get wasted and stay that way). He then sputtered. “That wasn’t Champagne.”

Deadpool looked at him blankly. “No. It was Whiskey mixed with tequila.”

“Why? Why would you give that to me? That was horrid.”

Wade scoffed and pulled the champagne glass from Peter's fingers before tossing it over his shoulder, not even flinching when it shattered against the floor. "If you're not here to drink, Spidey, what are you here for? Don't tell me you crashed one of Stark's "happenin' get-togethers"" he made air quotes, "to _mingle_."

Peter chuckled. "No, you're right. I'm here to get drunk."

"Then let's get drunk, Baby Boy," Wade screeched, and latched on to Peter's arm. He began towing Peter towards the bar, and Peter did not put up so much as a token protest.

It was sometime between Peter's fourteenth shot of tequila and his ninth of fireball that he realized two things. The first was that he was drunk. Really drunk. So drunk that he had taken to shooting webs at every passing person and dragging himself places by way of the ceiling. The second was that Wade had one hand tucked against Peter's waist, a few gloved fingers peaking under Peter's shirt, trailing against Peter's skin, and his tongue was lapping at the crook of Peter's neck.

Then suddenly, so quick it was almost vertigo-inducing, Peter decided that that was a _great_ idea and that they should continue perhaps somewhere less judgmental than Tony Stark's tower.

Peter knocked back the fireball before turning in Wade's arms until their lips were mere hairbreadths apart. "Let's get out of here," Peter whispered into Wade's mouth.

"But it's not midnight yet," Wade whined. "I wanna watch the ball drop."

Peter checked a clock on the wall and was surprised to find that it was barely 10 o'clock.

Peter ran a finger against Wade's jaw and felt his Adams apple bob as Wade swallowed. "Are you sure you wouldn't be interested in something else? I could keep you way more entertained than a silly ol' ball dropping."

Wade gulped again. He let out a shaky breath before nodding vigorously.

Peter looped an arm around Wade's shoulders and began the difficult process of pulling him out of the building while still keeping him upright. Wade wasn't really the problem. Well, he was, because he was weaving and wobbling as he walked, but so was Peter. The problem was that Peter wasn't really that great at controlling his strength while intoxicated, and he kept accidentally picking Wade up or pushing him faster than he was walking him because Peter just kept forgetting.

Wade didn't seem to mind. Really didn't seem to mind at all. He kept one arm tucked around Peter's waist, and his mouth was still suctioned to the spandex over Peter's neck.

They were almost to the window that opened (the access to any flying, or, well, swinging superhero who was invited to the tower), when he was intercepted by none other than Tony Stark himself.

"Kid," Tony said in a low voice, "I'm not sure I should be letting the two of you leave together. This is my party and I'd feel real guilty-like if you ended up needing therapy after this." He paused for dramatic effect. "Or a lawyer."

Peter flung his arm out to point at where a drunk Matt Murdock was leaning over a coffee table table, facing an even drunker Foggy Nelson, who was rolling on the floor in a pile of crushed Doritos which he was systematically trying to cover himself with. "Lawyer," Peter pointed out helpfully.

Tony ran a hand down his face. "You're not helping lead me to the belief that you're sober enough to consent to anything."

Peter poked Deadpool's shoulder and Wade lifted his head reluctantly. The cold spot left behind by Wade's mouth felt like sadness and Peter hated it. "Are you sober?" Peter asked Wade.

"Not even a little," Wade said with pride.

Peter gestured to Tony in a ‘see? You're wrong,’ motion.

"No," Tony slowly. "That is not at all how you disprove my point, kid."

Peter pouted. "I will have you know that I'm an adult."

"Mmm-hmmm," Tony said, in a way that didn't sound like agreement at all.

"He's twenty-four," Wade explained, only slightly slurring his words. "He is a hot twenty-four year old who wants to get in my pants. Let him."

"How do you know that, Wilson?" Tony said, crossing his arms. "You been spying on Webhead here?"

Peter scoffed and latched onto Wade with both arms. "I am offended. And aroused, but not by you. You are only offending. I'll have you know that Deadpool is the best of bros." He leaned in to make sure that Tony was _getting it_. Tony seemed not quite convinced. Peter didn't know why. He leaned in closer, until Peter's mouth was millimeters from Tony's ear. "I love him," he whispered, just a tad too loud, and then pulled back quickly before shushing very loudly and pressing a finger against Tony's mouth. "Shhhhhhhh, you can't tell him."

"Tell who, what?" Wade asked with a laugh.

Peter paused. "I don't know." He too laughed.

Tony sighed and uncrossed his arms. "Whatever, you're two consenting adults, I guess." He rubbed a hand down his face. "But I'm not paying for any therapy."

Peter whooped, grabbed hold of Wade, and launched them both out the window. "Iron Dad has given us permission to fuck!" He crowed.

Deadpool screamed.

"I know, right?" Peter shouted back.

"We're falling!" Wade screeched.

"It's great," Peter agreed. At the last moment he shot out a web, and then they were swinging.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhh!" Wade said. And then nothing, and then, "Are you sure you should be webbing drunk? Isn't that like drunk driving? Couldn’t it kill us? I mean, I'll come back, but you wouldn't Baby Boy."

Peter shrugged and then shot out another web. "I don't drive."

Peter let go of his web at the arc of his upward swing and Wade screamed again. "I think I'm afraid of heights," Wade admitted in a yell. Peter twisted his body to cushion the impact of hitting the roof, and he rolled to burn off the momentum.

"Why'd you stop?" Wade asked, voice still shaky.

"This is my apartment building," Peter said, because, duh.

Wade paused, and Peter could almost feel his eye growing as large as dinner plates. "What about your secret identity?"

Peter wondered himself why he wasn't freaking out about that and then shrugged. "I am about to get completely naked and fuck you," he paused to consider that, "or you can fuck me. I'm not that picky. But I will be naked. You're going to see me. I'm not sure how secret my identity will be after that."

Wade blinked. "And you're ok with that?"

Peter took a moment to actually consider that question before answering it. "I think I am. You're, like, my best friend right now. I trust you with my life. I definitely trust you with my face."

Wade let out a shaky breath. He swallowed. "Okay, Baby boy. That's, wow, that's a lot. You're probably going to regret this in the morning."

"No I'm not." Peter pressed forward into Wade and then kept pressing until they were at the edge of the roof.

"This shouldn't be this hot," Wade objected, losing track of the conversation. Peter pushed them both off the roof and Wade screamed again, but then Peter shot out a web, tugged, and they went tumbling through Peter's open bedroom window.

"You're a whirlwind," Wade said, "did you know that?"

"Mmmm," Peter hummed, and then pushed and pulled and maneuvered until they were falling across Peter's bed.

"So hot," Wade groaned, you are so hot. How are you this hot?"

"Is it the strength?" Peter asked as he stripped off his shirt. He heard as the breath stuttered in Wade's throat. "I think the strength is pretty sexy. I could pin both of your arms above your head with one hand." He heard Wade's breath stutter again and he smiled.

"Please," Wade whimpered. Peter quirked a smile but did not obey. First he wanted to be naked. He pulled off his boots, one at a time, painfully slowly, reveling in how every one of his movements made Wade twitch and writhe and keen on the bed. He flexed his bare toes. With two quick motions his hands were free, and he paused his undressing for a second to approach Wade and run his hands against Wade’s suit with his bare hands for the first time. Wade’s breath hitched. 

“Is this a synthetic woven with leather?” Peter asked, running his hands up and down Wade’s sides, brushing his knuckles against Wade’s hip. 

Wade whined, and seemed unable to form any actual words, let alone sentences.

Peter shrugged and then backed off, removed his hands from Wade’s sides, which was very, _very_ difficult because he really liked touching Wade. Really liked it.

He pulled his shirt off quickly, because his patience was running thin, and Wade hummed deliciously at Peter’s naked chest. And then he shimmied out of his pants which was slightly more difficult and less sexy than pulling off his shirt, but Wade goddamn whimpered when Peter's erection was made visible, and that bolstered Peter’s confidence to a heretofore never reached peak.

It didn’t last long, because when Peter reached for his mask Wade stopped him.

"Keep it on," Wade begged, and Peter frowned. His brain drew a blank, because this was going to be _it_. This was supposed to be where Peter told Wade everything. Wade was supposed to, well, want that. Wasn’t he? Wade never pressured Peter to reveal his identity, to take off his mask, and Peter had always been grateful for that, but Peter thought it had been a kindness, not a lack of curiousity. Didn’t Wade _want_ to know who Spiderman really was? Didn’t he _want_ to see Peter’s face? Didn’t he want to know the name of the guy who spent four out of seven nights on his couch playing Mario Karts? Or was this his way of distancing himself emotionally? This drunken hook-up was not a promise for a relationship. Peter wanted Wade, wanted to date him, wanted to kiss him and hold him and spend his evenings with him. Kind of forever. They had not talked about that. Peter knew Wade liked him as a friend. Peter knew Wade… appreciated Peter’s body. Maybe Wade could separate those things. Maybe to Wade this would only ever be a single drunken hook-up before midnight even struck on New Year’s Eve. And Peter craved as much of the man as he could get. It kind of hurt, thinking Wade would not reciprocate how _deep_ Peter felt for him. A steady ache. But he was still willing to have this one-night stand. Because he was a masochist. A hopeless masochist in love. Or something.

Peter left the mask on.

And then Peter kept Wade occupied for quite a bit of time. It was good. It was more than good, it was great. Feeling Wade squirming beneath him, making unholy noises that Peter utterly devoured, Peter loved it, but even drunk-Peter recognized that there was an undercurrent of desperation in what was happening between them, as much as Peter tried to internalize it. This might be the only time something like this happened, Peter was resigned to that, but if this was going to be the only time he would be able to feel Wade beneath him, feel his heat around him, taste his mouth, he was going to make it count.

And when they had both exhausted each other, Peter let himself flop down onto Wade's chest. He could use his intoxication as an excuse if Wade complained in the morning, though at this point he was barely buzzed. His metabolism at work.

"How was that?" Peter couldn't help but ask, with an added hint of smug that he didn't really feel.

Wade moaned. He nodded against Peter's head, and Peter couldn't help but grin.

The glowing red of the alarm clock on Peter's bedside table caught Peter's eye. He shuffled himself up and pressed a kiss to Wade's lips, something warmer than the kissing they'd already been doing that night. This was his love, pressed into a single brush of his lips.

"Happy New Years," Peter whispered into Wade's mouth.

"Mmmmm, Spidey, babe. If there’s any way better to christen a new year, I don't know it." He cupped the back of Peter's head, ran his fingers against ridges made by the pushed-up spandex of Peter's mask.

Peter smiled into Wade's chest, and it felt a little like ecstasy. It felt a little like heartbreak.

In the morning, Peter woke up alone.


	2. January

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter January for the Month of January. I hope you enjoy!

January

Peter was pretty convinced at this point that New Years Eve had been a mistake. That's right, the entire existence of December 31st was just one giant mistake and should be promptly erased.

Ok, so he didn't actually regret hooking up with Wade. He'd never. He loved Wade (OH GOD! THE L WORD! WHAT WAS PETER THINKING?!?!?!?), and he thought he'd prepared himself to follow up a night of the best sex ever with no sex with Wade ever again, and also being super awkward around each other and maybe not ever talking about that night. He might even have been accepting of the fact that Wade had obviously bailed sometime between midnight and waking up the next morning. But he _didn’t_ think the sex could have ruined their friendship. Honestly. Wade was so blasé about sex, he talked about being friends with benefits all the time. It had not even occurred to Peter that Wade would never want to see him again.

And yet that was what seemed to be happening. The day after, Peter had just stayed in bed and reveled in the memory of Wade's skin against Peter's, the scent of Wade suffused within his sheets. The day after that he tried to contact Wade. Nothing. And then the next day, still nothing.

It had been almost two weeks and Wade was still absolutely ignoring Peter. Every text Peter sent went unread. Every call went to voicemail.

Peter was starting to think he might never speak to the merc again. The thought made his heart ache.

Against his better judgement, Peter found himself slipping through the spidey-window (like the doggy-door for Spidermen) of Avengers tower. As Spiderman of course.

No one was in the common room.

“May I help you?” the British-ceiling voice said, startling Peter. Peter looked down at the floor above him, or, below him, but he was upside down on the ceiling, so he wasn’t really sure what the correct directionals were.

“Uh,” Peter cleared his throat, “I wanted to talk to Mr. Stark.”

There was a pause, and then British-ceiling-man said, “Sir has been alerted and is on his way.”

When Tony appeared he was tugging on the gauntlets to the Iron Man suit and was trailed by metal arms that were trying to assemble the rest of the suit around him. “What’s the emergency?” he said urgently. “I’ll alert the others. Where should I tell them to meet up? Speak up, Webhead, what’s the sitch?”

“No,” Peter was quick to point out. “Sorry, no, no emergency. Nothing is wrong. Please don’t break your suit.”

Tony looked down at the bit of metal he was compulsively trying to pull higher on his arm despite it already being snug. He waved off the metal arms and slowly, as if Peter was going to change his mind, stripped himself of his gauntlets. “If nothing’s wrong, Spider-kid, why are you here?”

Peter scowled. “I’m not a child. Geez.”

Tony lifted his eyebrows and motioned for Peter to actually answer the question.

Peter sighed. “Ok, do you remember the New Year’s Eve Party?”

“Yes,” Tony said emphatically, “because I’m fifty days sober and that party was the hardest temptation to come my way since I started pouring spirits down the sink. Of course I remember the party. _I_ wasn’t the one drinking. You, my small arachnid child, were so drunk the fumes coming off of you could have powered my armor for a month. How do you remember anything about that night? I would have blacked out if I’d had half of what you did.”

“Super metabolism,” Peter explained with a hint of apology.

Tony groaned. “Fuck, kid, you too? I thought Steve was hard to drink with, Thor is something else, even fucking Nat can drink me under the table these days. And now a super-child.” Tony pointed an accusing finger at Peter’s face. “I never used to feel this old around people in spandex.”

“That’s because you have no shame,” Peter said. “You never used to be this old, either.”

“Get to the point,” Tony said grumpily. “The party, yes I remember it.”

“Remember how you warned me that I might need therapy or a lawyer?”

“Fuck,” Tony said soundly. “Please don’t tell me you need a lawyer. What, did you get drunken-hitched to that loud-mouth or something? I’ve got Murdock on speed dial but I don’t think divorces are his forte.”

Peter scoffed. “No, we didn’t tie the knot. But if you wouldn’t mind being an impromptu therapist…” he trailed off.

Tony rubbed at his eyes tiredly before flopping down onto one end of a magnificently large couch and patting at the cushion beside him in invitation. Peter settled into the cushions. There was a pause before Tony grew too impatient and poked Peter in the chest. “Well, kid? What’s got your spider-panties in a twist?”

Peter scowled. “Wade won’t return my calls.”

There was another pause, but this one seemed…louder. “Deadpool told you his first name?”

Peter graced Tony with an unimpressed look. “I don’t know how much of what I said the thirty-first got through to your brain—”

“You weren’t actually making much sense.”

“But me and Wade are friends. We are really good friends. Of course I call him by his first name. I also have a key to his apartment. Well, a key to the lock on the window of his apartment, but at this point that makes more sense than a key to the front door. I have his copies of Sound of Music and Rent at my place, and he still has yet to return my copy of Until Dawn because he’s too shit-scared to play it unless I’m sitting next to him acting as a pin cushion to his finger nails when he gets startled.”

“Does he know your name?” Tony asked slowly.

Peter shifted on the seat. “No,” he said in a small voice. 

Tony hummed.

“Oh don’t give me that,” Peter said. “It wasn’t like I was going to pull a wham-bam, thank you—Sir? Ma’am? Whatever—without telling him who I really was. I mean, honestly, I even brought him back to my house, my real one, with pictures of me everywhere and my name on the lease. I was going to show him my _face_.”

“But he ran away?” Tony asked. “Before the face bit I mean?”

“Well, no. He disappeared after we fell asleep.”

“So you did end up…” Tony was leering melodramatically and Peter rolled his eyes. 

“Yes. We did. And it was very nice.”

Tony’s expression shuttered into something more parentally grossed out. “Did not need to hear that.”

“You asked.”

“No I didn’t.”

“You might as well have,” Peter pointed out.

“My point,” Tony said, “or I think it was my point. My question? My question had to do with your secret identity being known by your sex partner. Did it?”

“Did it… be known?” Peter asked. “No. No, it did not be known, or whatever grammatically correct version of that fucked up sentence is, because when I tried to pull off my mask right before sexy times he stopped me. Didn’t want to see my face.”

Tony made a face. “And you had sex with him anyway?”

Peter shrugged. “It seemed like an acceptable opportunity-cost situation at the time. I get sex with Deadpool but no relationship. Better than pining with no relationship but still no sex, and never sex. I’m not going to be able to date the man either way, why not just have sex with him if given the opportunity. Which I was. So I did.”

Tony held his hands in front of him defensively. “Hey, woah, no, no, no, I’m not judging. Calm down. I’ve got no leg to stand on in these situations. I’m just making sure I’ve got the facts straight. Clarifying.”

Peter narrowed his eyes at the man despite knowing that he wouldn’t be able to see it. “Fine. Yes. We had sex. It was pretty fantastic actually.”

“No details!” Tony demanded. “I want negative amount of details. Anti-details.”

“But,” Peter said, because unlike Tony Stark, he was an adult, “he skipped out before I woke up the next morning and now he won’t return my calls or texts or anything.”

“That doesn’t sound like Wilson,” Tony muttered to himself. “He’s more the awkward-confrontation, won’t-let-the-subject-go-until-everyone-is-unsettled type. Not the bang-and-run type.”

“Maybe it’s me?” Peter asked, hunching over and pulling at the fingers of his gloves nervously.

Tony squinted at Peter. “I wouldn’t _think_ so, you’re, like, the one hero he actually genuinely likes. Not hero-adores like with Steve, but actually likes.” He shrugged. “But what do I know? He’s kinda messed up,” he made a twirling motion at his own temple, “up here. Maybe he got caught up in his own mental jam and had to skip out of town to blow up some people for money or something. Maybe a job came up. What the fuck do I know about the creep.”

“He’s not a creep,” Peter bit out defensively.

“I’m not sure you’re able to be objective about his creepiness levels,” Tony said in a sardonic tone. “You’re kind of emotionally invested.”

Peter scowled.

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Tony said, getting to his feet and clapping Peter on the shoulder. “He’s probably off killing some drug lords or something. Something illegal and immoral. Just you wait, he’ll be back in no time and you’ll be coming to me to help you hide his body after you murder his annoying ass. In the meantime, next time you wanna talk call ahead, it’ll save us both some trouble, and me a heart attack.” And with that Tony was gone.

“Bye, Mr. Stark,” Peter said with only the slightest bit of annoyance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter, February, won't be out till February. See you then!


	3. February

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy February guys!

February

The fact that Wade reappeared in Peter's life on Valentine's Day was just ironic enough that the tingle of pain radiating out from his heart, racing through his veins out to his extremities, wasn't crippling. Just, ya know, owie.

And he slid into Peter's life, worst of all, as if nothing had changed at all. As if New Years had never even happened. Maybe Peter's wish had come true after all. Why, then, did it hurt so much?

"Buenos dias, Baby Boy," Wade said, slipping into the middle of one of Peter's fights against some over-confident jewelry robbers, as if he'd always been there, immediately covering Peter's six. Peter never needed to look over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't exposing his back, or about to get a bullet to the spleen he didn't see coming, because Wade was there. And Peter never had to worry when Wade was there. Which was perhaps the karmatic way of reminding Peter how much he'd worried when Wade wasn’t there. Not missing, just... incommunicado.

"Deadpool," Peter greeted the man. He tried to shake off the roiling ball of emotions churning in his gut. Delight in seeing Wade again warred with anger at how blasé he was being, as if that night with Peter, or Peter himself, wasn't worth even mentioning. Loneliness crept along with regret that Wade had this much sway over Peter, melting in sharp, sporadic bursts, into relief that at least Wade had returned. At least Wade didn't deem their friendship over.

The fact that Peter's next roundhouse kick only broke the baddie's nose and not his neck showed a level of restraint that Peter wasn't really feeling internally. And it was slightly cathartic, so that was something.

"What's a boy like you doing in a dark alley like this?" Deadpool asked from somewhere behind Peter, and the next kick Peter sent barely missed shattering a man's jaw. He could hear the snicker-snak of Wade's katanas slicing and dicing, and Peter thought it wasn't quite fair for Wade to be able to go back to flirting, harmless flirting, when for one night they'd had more. It would take Peter longer. Much longer. 

For half a second, just 30 milliseconds, Peter considered that maybe Wade wanted to have something more than one night. Like a boyfriend. Peter would make a good boyfriend. Really. Or maybe a very codependent friends-with-benefits type deal, where they'd keep sleeping together and flirting with each other, and eating out together, and maybe eventually living together.

So, like being a boyfriend.

And then Peter remembered Wade's refusal to let Peter take off his mask, his refusal to let Peter give Wade his real self. And then he remembered the month and a half of complete silence. Surely a man who wanted his one-night fling to be more than just a one-night fling would at least answer his fucking phone when the guy called. 

So the answer was obviously no.

"Punching," Peter finally answered, after a pause that had grown too long and slightly awkward. As if to prove that he wasn't lying, Peter proceeded to punch three masked baddies in the gut in systematic order. He felled all three.

Wade laughed, and it twisted in Peter's heart. He let out a quick breath, as if he too had just gotten gut-punched. But by emotions instead of a fist.

"Well, duh, Baby Boy. You have Spider-fists of power, very magnificent. And if you ever need to upgrade your fists to something more civilized like bullets or swords you can always come to me," Wade said, sounding like an overzealous parody of seduction. Peter couldn't help but crack a smile.

"What about you?" Peter couldn't help but ask. "Where in God's grey city have you been? I tried texting you." He sounded mildly bitter. That was ok, right? It didn't have to be about the sex thing. A friend could totally be bitter about being ignored by his totally platonic, only-slept-with-him-once bro.

"Sorry Webs," Wade said, and he sounded genuine. Pete wasn't sure if that made him feel better or not. "I got a job down in Savannah, my god, their pralines are to kill for. And I did. But mid-praline I got my phone nabbed, and by the time I was done knocking the idiot unconscious and leaving his body under a dumpster behind Paula Dean's restaurant, it had gotten completely smashed underfoot! I lost all my contacts, Baby Boy, and lost my high score on Angry Birds! Thank god for the Cloud or I woulda lost all those amazing pictures of your fantabulous booty, you sexy thang."

"Stop taking pictures of my ass," Peter said, because that was what he was supposed to say when Wade complimented his ass, but his heart wasn't really into it. 

"Over my dead body," Wade responded, which was what he was supposed to say next, and at least he sounded like a real person. "And I'm impossible to kill."

Peter snorted. “You won’t be for long if you keep tempting fate by saying things like that.”

“I’m offended, Baby Boy, honestly offended.” He placed one hand over his heart and used the other to throw his sword into the leg of an advancing gunman, causing the attacker to fall to the ground with a scream. “And anyway, I meant, what’s a hot little thing like you doing all alone on Valentine’s Day?”

And, yep, there it was, the stinging pain in his heart. Like an open wound that Wade just kept squeezing fresh lemon juice into like he was some chef turned plague-doctor. Ouch, ouch, ouch.

“It’s not like I have someone to spend the day with,” Peter bit out, mouth twisting like he was swallowing something acidic. Maybe it was his heart. An acidic heart, what was that about?

“Aww, Baby Boy couldn’t get a date?” Wade laughed.

“You don’t have to rub it in,” Peter ground out. “I know I couldn’t even get a single date.” Out of you, was left unsaid.

Peter paused for a moment, looked around at the either unconscious or moaning-in-pain burglars scattered on the floor around him. Usually this was where one of them would invite the other to dinner. Or midnight-snack. Food. Peter wasn't sure how normal he'd be able to act. Not tonight, when the dark of night gave the illusion of safety in his vulnerability. Not when everything Wade said was like a landmine trying to obliterate every bit of Peter’s sanity one turn of phrase at a time.

Wade was back, that was the important thing. He just had to keep reminding himself of that. He had to take some time to process everything. Wade was back. He wasn't for-reals dead, or avoiding him, or being held captive by some alien-God-monster-creature-thing.

He just, wanted to ignore New Years Eve. Wanted to make very clear that they were just friends. Buddies. Pals. Peter could do that. He just needed a little time was all. And a point of contact, something to ground him, to remind him that just because Wade wasn't his, didn't mean Wade wasn't there.

"Phone number," Peter demanded, holding out his hand. And then he winced, because being unjustifiably snippy was not a good way of acting like a totally platonic bro who was not over-thinking his one night of bro-sex with his best bro. 

Wade gave him a strange look, his mask showing far more emotion than Peter's was capable of. "Baby Boy, you are so hot and cold tonight," Wade complained as he began digging through his pouches. 

Peter bit his lip. 

"Like that Katy Perry song," Wade continued, and made a face as he stuck a hand far deeper into a pouch than should have been physically possible. "You know that one? Hot and Cold? Only with less jokes about PMSing because that is rude and not a thing. Seriously, why does she use so many sexist stereotypes about girls in that album? I mean, I could never dis our goddess California Girl, but there are so many issues." He dug his hand into another pouch, pulled out a radish, and chucked it over his shoulder before going back to digging. "You're so gay and you don't even like boys? Homophobic. I kissed a girl and I liked it. I hope my boyfriend don't mind it? Well he should. Kisses don't mean less if you're doing it to someone who doesn't conform to your usual sexual orientation's preferred partner's sex. I suppose you wouldn't mind if your boyfriend kissed another boy. And don't even get me started on One of the Boys. I mean, really? Like ballerinas can't play guitar. Or—fucking, you can wear pearls while you play football. It's ridiculous, these standards." Wade made a quiet little cheering noise that made Peter grin before he even realized he was doing it, and he pulled a cell phone from a pocket. He handed it to Peter with no hesitation. "I love them all of course, Baby Boy. Nostalgia is a hell of a thing, but she's really, really, problematic."

Peter thumbed his number into Wade's contacts, noting with no small amount of relish that his was the only number saved into the phone. Then he texted himself from Wade's phone so that he'd have the merc's number too.

"Her later stuff is better," Wade continued. "Personal growth. I love it. They should make a movie out of it. Or wait, didn't they already? I bet it sucks. Never saw it."

"Here," Peter said, and tossed the phone at Wade. The man caught it and in one smooth motion deposited it back into one of his many pouches.

"Thanks boo," Wade cooed. "Now, how's about we head to my place to cele--"

"Sorry," Peter interrupted, feeling like he was stomping on a cats tail. He didn't want to avoid Wade, he just, couldn’t handle the man’s jokes, not right now. "Things to do. Places to be. Projects to finish. Pictures to take."

"Pictures?" Wade asked incredulously, but Peter was already webbing away, ignoring Wade's voice and his own voice, inside his head, demanding for him to turn around and go back to the merc. Peter ignored them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Deadpool showed up へ‿(ツ)‿ㄏ


	4. March, April

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep worrying that I will suddenly forget the order of the months and post a chapter called July right after May or something, which is ridiculous, because I know my months, but I still keep checking my calendar compulsively.

March

"The problem," Peter was saying, looking at his hands as he wrung them to within an inch of their life, "is that nothing _has_ changed. At least, nothing that I can see. It's like that night, and then the following month and a half didn't happen! We banter the same, hang out the same, go out to dinner the same. It's not awkward. There are no heavy pauses, no telling stares. I know I sound like one of those romances with half naked men on the cover, "The Duke wins a Bride for Christmas," or something, but I'm serious! This is what Wade has reduced me to!" He threw up his hands and then adjusted his mask around the neck where it was starting to pinch. "It's like it didn't even matter to him! We still hang out, like all the time. And nothing has changed! Whenever we get too close or he licks his lips or I laugh at the wrong time in a movie, I always think, 'this is it, here comes the awkward pause,' but there's nothing! Maybe I _want_ it to be awkward. I know I thought I'd be happy if everything went back to normal. And I _am_ glad. I'd rather be strung out on Wade's lack of awkwardness than Wade not be in my life at all, but I'd like a _little_ consideration. I wish he'd just do or say something to recognize that we _did_ have sex. It happened. And then he ran away for a month and a half like a child. I'm not saying he needs to sweep me into his arms and declare his undying love for me. Ok, I'd really like if that happened, not going to lie, but that doesn't mean I _need_ for it to happen, or even expect it. But it's like we never even _saw_ each other on New Year’s Eve. Which is craze-balls. We saw _a lot_ of each other on New Years, if you know what I mean. But whenever I subtlety mention it, and I _can_ be subtle, thank you very much, he just talks like we never even saw each other that day. Why is he avoiding the topic like this? Not that I _need_ anything from him, but, again, a little recognition would be nice. And, like I said, we still see each other a lot. And really, I should be grateful that I didn't ruin our friendship. It's been eating me up inside. Whew! Wow, that was a lot off my chest. Thanks for listening to me, man. It really means a lot."

Tony turned to look at him from across his busy lab. He was bent over a holograph that he'd refused to identify but looked from afar, at least to Peter, like new specs for trick arrows for Hawkeye. Tony was frowning at Peter pretty spectacularly. "Stop coming here just to talk my ear off." He gestured towards the elevator in a clear dismissal. "I'm not your therapist. If you keep breaking in here just to complain to me about how much you want to bone a killer-for-hire I'm going to need you to start paying me. And then _I’m_ going to need therapy of my own. Which is the main reason I’ll need you to start paying me. Being a billionaire wouldn’t possibly be enough to fix my brain after everything you’ve burdened me with."

"I don't just want to bone him!" Peter objected, outraged.

Tony rolled his eyes so hard they near popped out his head. "Yes, of course, that's what you took out of that. God, kid, why don't you just talk to him about this shit?"

Peter scowled. "Like that'll fix anything. It'll just make everything awkward when it isn't."

"Sure," Tony said, with faux-amiability, "that's what ruins relationships. Communication. Of course. And all this time I thought it was a _lack_ of communication that caused all my previous relationships to go off the rails."

Peter lobbed a can of compressed air at Tony's head, slow enough for him to duck it. It passed right through the holograph.

"You don't have to be all snooty about it, Mr. Stark. By the way, you missed a line of equation next to the rear bypass in the false shaft."

"Get _out_!"

☂

April

Spending time with Wade actually got better after his talk with Tony. Despite what the avenger implied, he was actually a pretty good amateur therapist. Not that Peter was going to tell him that and inflate his ego. Or whatever.

March was hard. March was Peter nit-picking everything he said before it came out of his mouth, rewording anything that could possibly sound even the slightest bit flirty, or insensitive, or like he was trying too hard, which he was. He was definitely trying too hard, and it was exhausting.

April, in comparison, was a breath of fresh air. His talk with Tony had made him realize that even if this lack of relationship with Wade was _not_ what he wanted, now he knew where he stood with the mercenary. Hanging out with Wade was, yes, more painful—much, much, more painful—but it was less fraught. He knew that no matter what, no matter how he stuck his foot into his mouth, or tensed at any awkward silence, or how much he absolutely adored Wade, Wade’s feelings for him would never change. And that constant in Peter’s life, even if it was searingly painful to love a man who wanted nothing more than friendship from him, was nice. It was something he could lean against, trust in. Something he could relax into.

And it _was_ relaxing, knowing exactly what Wade thought of him, at least as a romantic interest. Which was nil. There was no possibility of romance. And so there was no possibility of awkwardness. Peter could stay at Wade’s house all night, well into morning, playing Super Smash Bros, and Wade could sling his arm around Peter’s shoulders, could make them both pancake breakfasts the next morning, could compliment all of Peter’s… well, _assets_ , and Peter still knew where he stood. Yes, hearing Wade friendishly-flirting with him hurt, it hurt a lot, but it didn’t give him hope, and that constant was nice. It was a load off Peter’s mind. Peter could just be himself, didn’t have to run through possible scenarios of everything he said in his mind before he did anything. He didn’t have to second-guess the reasoning behind Wade’s actions. Everything was completely above-board.

“Spidey!” Wade huffed in his sleep, curled where he’d been sitting on the couch, next to Peter, when they’d been trying to get through all eight Harry Potter Movies. Wade had fallen asleep sometime in the middle of The Half-blood Prince, his head drooping down onto Peter’s shoulder. Peter had kept watching the movies. ABC marathons would not stop for a single sleepy man. And, maybe it was nice to soak in Wade’s presence. And, ok, he was being used as a pillow and didn’t want to disrupt the merc. 

By the time Deathly Hallows Part one was starting, one of Wade’s hands had migrated to Peter’s chest and was clutching the Spandex there. By the time Voldemort was defeated and Harry Potter had saved the entire wizarding world like the protagonist he was, Wade was curled completely around Peter.

“Spidey,” Wade huffed again, voice quiet, but said so close to Peter’s ear that Peter could hear every inflection, every rise and fall of his breath.

Yep.

Completely above-board. Nothing strange here. Everything was absolutely normal. No need to worry.

Everything was totally above-board and platonic and only slightly agonizing.

Just as the credits were starting to roll, Wade jerked awake. For just a quarter of a second he was rigid, tense, and Peter was halfway into an internal debate about whether it would be better to speak or better to let Wade remember where he was on his own, when the decision was taken completely out of his hands. 

Wade's body abruptly relaxed, went completely limp, and then whipped forward, twisted, and then they were falling, the breath rushed out of Peter's lungs. They hit the floor with an anticlimactic thump, and Peter found his arms pinned to his sides by Wade's thighs as the merc straddled him. There was the muzzle of a gun pressed against one temple and the cool steel of a knife tickling the underside of his chin.

And then Wade actually looked at him, and sat back on his haunches (or more specifically, sat back on _Peter_ , his ass settling down heavily on a part of Peter's anatomy that...appreciated exactly where Wade's ass was at the moment. Bad, Penis. So, troublesome). Peter didn't have to see Wade to know he was blinking in confusion. The gun and knife both disappeared.

"Why Spidey, my boy," Wade drawled, "I didn't expect to find you quite so..." He looked down at the way the "V" of his thighs framed Peter's torso, and Peter's eyes couldn't help follow the gaze. It _was_ an enticing view. The pause was going on too long, and Peter really didn't (yes he did) want to hear how Wade was going to finish that sentence. It wasn't until Peter raised his eyes to meet Wade's once more that the merc said, "submissive," in the silkiest voice Peter thought he'd ever heard.

Peter swallowed thickly. "Perhaps your eyes are messing with you," Peter said, or tried to say, but it came out scratchier than he'd intended it. And then he bucked up, hard, because, c’mon, Spidey-strength, and flipped the merc across the room. He crashed into a lamp, shattering the light bulb, and fell amongst shards of glass and bent metal. Peter dusted off his hands as he stood, staring down at the man he loved—the man he'd just hurled across the room into a piece of now-broken furniture. 

Peter started to suspect that perhaps his emotions were still complicated.

A choking noise interrupted Peter's emotional analysis, and Peter's heart froze. Had he _hurt_ Wade? Had he _damaged_ him? _Irreparably_? 

And then the choking noise resolved itself into laughs, great guffaws that were wracking Wade's entire body, leaving him so breathless that he was unable to get to his feet. He kept trying to stand, only to fall again when wracked with mirth. 

Peter felt his heart start up again, and suddenly there was too much adrenaline coursing through his body, pumping through his veins. The pseudo-sexual advances, piled on top of the suddenness of being tumbled to the ground, the weapons, thinking he could have _hurt_ Wade. And then realizing how dumb a thought that had been because, duh, healing factor. The relief. It made the world too sharp. His muscles ready to tense and spring at a moment's notice. His breathing was too loud, Wade's laugh too all-encompassing. Peter could hear the shards of glass beneath Wade's body crunch and crack as Wade shook with laughter.

Peter's breath caught at how beautiful Wade’s laughter really was. The whole world was focused down to that sound, like a dry leaf, browned by autumn's power, and crackling, scraping against a tree's bark as it fluttered to the ground; like three-day-old snow, crusted and icy-slick on the top, and cracking beneath the heel of thick-soled boots; like fire-crackers on Fourth of July, not the big booming ones, unreachable up in the sky, but the quick pitter-patter and wheezing of the machine-gun whizz-bangers set afire and left on the ground to sparkle and spin in tiny strobes of light. Wade's laughter was the _universe_.

"Really?" Wade wheezed, trying to catch his breath, but looking like, finally, his laughing bout was over. "Really? You treat my declaration of love with scorn and _violence_? Really? I'm very hurt."

Peter's heart stopped again (this could not be good for the poor organ that never did anything wrong. Except, maybe, falling in love).

Declaration of love? What declaration of love? Had Peter missed it? _How_ had Peter missed it? He definitely would _not_ have missed a declaration of love from the man he loved. 

He rewound the conversation in his mind. 

... _submissive_...

His heart hurt in its restarting. It ached with each thump. Each reminder. Its hopes dashed. Because, right, love-declaration. Wade's brand of friendly-flirting. He'd just forgotten for a moment, in all the commotion. He knew where he stood with Wade. It was friendly-flirting because they were just friends. 

This is where Peter would make a wise-crack. Their banter was a conversation. Wade had said his piece. It was Peter's turn. So Peter turned on his smile, pulled it up, millimeter by painful millimeter, into place. Peter could always hear when Wade was smiling when they talked. He wanted Wade to hear his smile now. 

"Oh get up, you layabout," Peter mock-complained. "You don't get to complain. Always breaking things. That poor lamp." _My poor heart_. "Now sit back down on this couch with me and pretend like you didn't just miss the last three Harry Potter movies completely."

Wade gawped at the TV as he got to his feet and shambled back to the couch where Peter joined him. "I missed all three?" He stared at the screen, now showing a commercial where a white man was unable to understand the concept of yogurt while his track-suit wearing wife looked on in fond exasperation. "No," he denied. "You're lying to me. There's no way I'd sleep that long with someone else in my cave." 

Peter scoffed. "This is not a cave, you Neanderthal. And yes, you _did_." Peter pointed at the screen as Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone started up again. 

Wade was openly gaping at Peter. Through his mask it should have been hard to tell, but it really wasn't. Peter frowned. "What?"

Wade snapped his mouth closed and turned his attention back to the TV. "Nothing," he finally said. 

Peter hummed, but decided to let the matter drop. He was emotionally exhausted, but the adrenaline was still pumping, and Peter had the distinct impression that his mouth probably didn't have a filter at the moment. He wasn't going to verbally corner Wade when he was just as likely to himself spout something unnecessarily embarrassing that would destroy the unspoken agreement between them to never bring up New Year's Eve. 

"Ok," Wade said slowly, but with a growing smile on his face. "I guess since I missed the end of the last marathon we'll just have to start the marathon from the beginning."

Peter gasped in exaggerated horror. "No! You can't make me sit here for another hundred hours!"

"Yes I can!" Wade shrieked gleefully, and lunged for the remote which he then held over his head, out of Peter's reach.

"I refuse!" Peter jumped for the remote, but Wade tucked and rolled out of the way, cackling madly.

"No refusing," Wade said, as he dodged Peter's grasp once more. "We're _finishing_ this marathon."

"No! No we aren't!" Peter tackled Wade to the ground, and smiled even as he struggled with the mercenary for the remote. This was comfortable. This was right. This was a friendship with his most favoritest person ever, and Peter was happy, even as he ached.

Even Wade's smile seemed a tad brighter, his laughter just teensy bit more breathless. And he seemed infinitely happier.


	5. May, June

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a very tired potato when I'm uploading this, so if I miss any spelling or grammar or logic things, please tell me

May

It wasn't that Peter had never noticed Betty before. He noticed her all the time. She was Jameson's secretary. Pretty, but with a serious expression. Peter wasn't sure she had a sense of humor. Intelligence? Yes. Beauty? Of course. Kindness? Compassion, generosity? Definitely. Peter's wallet could attest to that. She always put in a good word with Jameson when his photos weren't up to par, or he needed an advance on his pay checks. 

So of course he noticed her. It was just, this was the first time she had ever really noticed _him_. He'd always gotten the impression that she considered him like a nerdy little brother, or an incompetently pathetic college-graduate who ate ramen for three meals a day and still wore shirts he'd bought in high school.

Only today he'd been in a rush, hadn't had time to slip on his glasses after pulling off his mask. He was on a deadline to get into the Bugle before closing to give Jameson what little photos he'd taken. Of himself. Narcissism, anyone? His clothes were rumpled, his glasses missing, and his hair spiky and dripping from a quick bout of rain that had started right as he was entering the building.

Wasn't it supposed to be _April_ showers? May flowers? What was with the rain?

But whatever it was, Betty was looking at him, really looking at him, like he was something startling, something new and attractive. 

Peter wasn't sure he liked it. He _should_ like it. Honestly he should. When he'd first started selling photos to Jameson (so many years ago. Good god, almost a decade) he'd had a pretty big crush on Betty. He was young and lankier then, gangly and acne-ridden and just barely getting into his powers. And she had been gorgeous, and so competent, so put-together. Jameson's constant yelling and nagging, his ups and downs, hadn't phased her at all. She made it work.

She hadn't even noticed him as an option. 

But now she was. She was noticing him. She was looking at him like she wanted to eat him up. He was flattered. He _should_ have been ecstatic. His teenage fantasies were coming true. 

And he _did_ feel flattered. Really. But...

"Why Mister Parker," she said in a simpering tone Peter didn't think he'd ever heard her use before, "you're here pretty late. Pushing the time just a bit, aren't you?" She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

"Got caught up," Peter explained, pasting on a bland smile. "There was a robbery a few blocks over. Spiderman showed up. I've got those photos for Mister Jameson too."

"You sure are always in the right place at the right time." She giggled and twirled a strand of hair around her finger, the same strand she’d just tucked behind her ear. 

Peter _should_ find her interest arousing. She was obviously flirting. All he could think was that she was playing with her hair an awful lot and didn't seem to actually care what it ended up looking like.

Pete shrugged. "Guess I'm just lucky that way. Is old JJJ in?" He gestured at the office door to the side of her desk. 

She startled, as if she'd forgotten that was what he was here for. "Of course. Go right in."

He _should_ ask her on a date, Peter thought while he listened to Jameson rant with half an ear. It would certainly be a good first step in getting over Wade. Wade obviously didn't want him. He couldn't live forever following the man he loved, who didn't love him back, like some demented puppy. He should try to get over Wade.

Hah, like that’s going to happen, a traitorous part of his brain piped up.

He _should_ ask her out for coffee. Maybe flirt a little back with her. He should ask her for her phone number, he was sure he'd get it. She was right there. Willing, desiring even, to try at romance with him. She was beautiful Betty Brant. He should, he should, he should...

When he left the Bugle it was with a check in his pocket and a few photos in Jameson's grubby mitts, and a slip of paper with a phone number on it that he held crumpled in his hand, and which he flicked at the closest trash can.

Betty was nice. And she looked at him like he'd shaken her up a little and she wished he'd do more.

But she wasn't Wade.

☁

June

Deadpool was being a fucking nuisance. Actually pretty damn problematic. 

Or, well, in any other situation he'd be straddling the line between adorably attentive and amazingly sweet, but at the moment Peter was a _little busy_ and Wade would not leave him alone!

Peter guessed that's where he drew the line. Wade's actions were adorable up until he started interfering with Peter finding a bomb.

"So," Wade said as he peered over Peter's shoulders as Peter clattered away at a laptop provided by the merc, "what do you think you'll be up to _after_ we catch bird boy and blow his plans on blowing up his bomb?"

"I don't know, Wade!" Peter bit out trying to focus on geographical patterns and the Vulture's past actions and the likelihood of him using something like a subway line or an elementary school to cause the most damage, or if his bomb would be placed somewhere more sentimental to him.

"So, like, are you free?" Wade asked, sounding, perhaps intentionally, like a valley girl. "I'm hungry now, so by then I'll probably be starving. Do you maybe want to--"

"Probably not," Peter replied without thought. He'd just gotten a ping of a sighting of the Vulture through a piggybacking of the police's broadband that Wade had somehow gotten access to on his server. Thus using his laptop.

"We don't have to eat," Wade said, and in the corner of his mind, Peter recognized that he sounded vaguely disappointed. "We could just come back here like we always do. I just downloaded that Star Trek MMO. You like nerdy shit like that, right?" 

He pressed his chin over Peter's shoulder, and normally it would make Peter blush or revel in it, but hello! _Bomb_! He didn't need that kind of distraction from Wade at the moment, especially considering that Wade didn't even mean it as anything more than friendly camaraderie. So Peter jiggled his shoulder until Wade's weight disappeared.

"I did kind of already start it, but you can take over! Captain Ignoramus is an awesome Ferangi chick, you'll like her. And the USS Dum-Dum."

"Not _now_ , Wade," Peter hissed, hunching further over the laptop.

"Or we could go to the movies. That new M. Night Shama-lama-ding-dong film is in theaters now. We could go see it and then make fun of it?"

"Wade," Peter snapped. "The Vulture was just seen fleeing the roof of the Baxter Building. Could you harass me about this later?!" He slammed the laptop closed and shuffled it under the couch before making his way to Wade's window.

"Woah, there, Baby Boy," Wade said placatingly, and Peter spun to see Wade had his hands raised in entreaty. "If it's the Baxter building that Buzzard wants to wreck, I say we just ring up the Fantastic Foursome and let them deal with their own turf. That way we can stay back here and I can treat you to pizza."

Peter just barely stopped himself from moaning in a mixture of resignation and annoyance. "We can't," Peter said, sounding even snippier than he had before. "The Four are on some intergalactic mission. They're in _space_. So that means it's up to _us_ to protect their home."

"We have to protect their _home_ ," Wade repeated in a nasally tone of voice that was probably supposed to come out too quiet for Peter to hear, but hear he did. Then he sighed, and louder, said, "Alright, Baby Boy, lead the way. But I vote to at least let the Avenging-ers know so in case we're there when— _if_ —the Baxter gets blown sky high we aren't blamed."

Peter hummed, not really paying attention, and jumped out the window.

 

The Baxter building didn't get blown up.

(Spoiler alert)

Peter landed on the building's roof, Wade tucked under one arm like the most ungainly and awkwardly shaped sack of potatoes. 

"I still think we should call _someone_ ," Wade said petulantly. He had pouted the entire way there and Peter was tired of it. And stressed, because... BOOM! "Like the police. Bomb disposal squad. Someone important? And then when the day has been saved we can go out and get celebratory tacos. Or cupcakes. Yeah, I'm feeling very red velvet cupcake right now." He smacked his lips together.

Peter dropped Wade and paid no mind to the annoyed grunt he made as he hit the ground. Peter was too busy striding towards the decreasing red numbers that obviously belonged to a time bomb.

"Shouldn't we be worried about the Vulture?" Wade asked. "What if he's up to something else nefarious and this is just a ticking red herring?"

"Good point," Peter said. "Why don't you go find him while I take care of this very dangerous and fatally explosive device?"

Wade huffed and Peter thought it was safe to roll his eyes since he had a mask on and he was facing a bomb.

"Do you even know how to dismantle it?" Wade asked.

"No," Peter bit out, "but I'm pretty sure I can figure it out."

"You should _call someone_ ," Wade whined.

Peter moved to the side so Wade could see the lights of the clock descending from 43 seconds...

42 seconds...

41 seconds...

40 seconds...

"I don't think I have the time," Peter said through gritted teeth.

Wade let out a huge sigh, like Peter was the one doing _him_ a disservice. And then he brushed past Peter and set one of his katanas against the rainbow of twined-together wires.

"Wait!" Peter shouted, trying to muscle back in front of the device to block Wade's sword. "Are you just going to cut _all_ —"

And Wade did just that, slicing cleanly through all of the wires in one swift stroke. 

Peter ducked his head, as if that would protect him from the explosion, only no explosion came. He peaked up, and Wade was still standing there, staring down at Peter like Peter was the world's dumbest trained chimp.

"But—" Peter started, bewildered. He gestured to the mess of cut wires.

"The movies are _sooo_ mistaken," Wade confided. "It's always, 'Cut the blue wire. No! The red wire!' Blah blah blah." He shrugged and sheathed his sword. "But if you cut _all_ the wires then nothing _can_ happen because there's no connection from anything to anything else."

"Oh," Peter breathed out heavily. He swallowed. "Cool. I, uh, didn't know that."

"Duh!" Wade stuck out his hand, and Peter accepted his help up. "Now let's go cook this goose."

"Vulture."

"Pigeon. Whatever."

 

“So, what you’re telling me,” Wade said, speaking down at the avian-ly dressed man he was sitting on, “is that you were trying to steal some science-y, tech-y mumbo jumbo from Rude Richard’s lab—”

“Yes!” The Vulture squawked and shifted, trying to get free but unable to do so under the weight of the mercenary.

“—so you could intimidate the Green Goblin—”

“Yes!”

“—into joining you in your evil plot to destroy New York’s most favoritest Web-crawler?”

“Yes! Yes I did! Now will you get _off_ of me you _oaf_!”

Wade redistributed his weight and very specifically did _not_ get off of the Vulture’s back. “Well what do you know, Baby Boy. Vultures really _can_ sing.”

Peter frowned. “That was a poorly planned pun, Deadpool. I am very ashamed. Also, can you stop interrogating the bomber-bird and let me take him to the police?”

Wade readjusted again, making the Vulture squawk, before letting out a heartfelt sigh. “I guess, if needs must.”

Wade levered himself off the villain, making sure to use the Vulture’s head as a hand-hold. The man grunted as his cheek was pushed into the ground.

“I’ll get you,” the Vulture growled, as Deadpool finally hefted him to his feet.

“You know, when you speak like that you really are just playing into the evil villain stereotypes,” Peter chided.

“Work _against_ the system,” Wade recommended before pulling some fluffy handcuffs from a pouch and binding the Vulture’s hands behind his backs.

“It’s people like you that give villains a bad name,” Peter agreed.

“Besides the villainy of course,” Wade added.

“Of course.” Peter nodded and then dragged the both of them into a tight grip. The sound the Vulture made when Peter threw himself, and therefore Wade and the Vulture with him, over the side of the building reminded Peter of Wade’s shit-faced screaming on their way back to Peter’s place six months before. 

But this time, this time, beneath the fearful screaming of the Vulture, Peter could hear Wade’s joyous laughter as they swung through the city, glinting red and blue and black reflections in the skyscraper’s windows.

Peter left the Vulture webbed into a cocoon in front of the closest Police station with a note tacked on detailing what the criminal had done. Had tried to do before Peter and Wade had stopped him. The man’s malicious screeching echoed after them as Peter swung away, arm wrapped securely around Wade’s waist.

It had been a long day, bombs and semi-helpful mercenaries were not completely out of the usual but Peter kind of just wanted to sleep for a week straight. The Vulture was taken care of, JJJ had just paid him for three whole Spidey-selfies, and Aunt May had forced a huge Tupperware of lasagna home with Peter the night before. He just wanted to go home and relax so he dropped Wade off at the merc’s apartment without much thought.

“Wanna come up?” Wade asked, and then looked down at his apartment building’s roof. “Or down?” Wade waggled his eyebrows. “Wanna go down, Spidey-hombre?”

Peter let out a little huff of amusement and rubbed his eye with a closed fist. “I think I’ll have to postpone any criminal-catching celebrations. I’m beat.”

“What about dinner?” Wade asked, sounding oddly hopeful.

Peter couldn’t think of what that could mean, that tone of voice, so he ignored it. “Goodnight, Deadpool,” he said with some finality, and took a flying leap off the roof.

Peter wasn’t quite far away enough to miss Wade’s sigh, a sigh that on anyone else would have sounded disappointed, and a quiet, “Goodnight, Spidey.” Peter shook it off, and did not think on it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, I'm like, not a bomb-retrieval specialist or bomb stopper or whatever, so don't take my advice to heart. If you ever need to stop a bomb, please _call the professionals_


	6. July

July

This was a stupid idea. Really, just the most idiotic thing Peter could do. The fact that Peter knew it was dumb and was doing it anyway meant that _he_ was an idiot. And that he was desperate for money.

When Jameson had called him at five in the morning, Peter was tempted to just hang up on the sadist. And then the old busy body said something about increased pay?? Peter's ears had perked up. 

The long and short of it was The Bugle was doing an expose for their website, with a smaller connected piece in their paper, but the usual photographer had gotten stranded in Vegas and the expose was important, and Would Peter just take the damned job? They were on a schedule God-damnit! 

And Peter had said yes so fast his head had spun. He got semi-decent money freelancing, but this was an upfront, follow the reporter to the site of the interview, lay out every shot, position people, be a professional job. This was good money, better pay, but also he would be able to actually take some good shots, not just hasty, pre-planned snaps of himself in spandex.

And then he got to the Bugle and found out who the interview was with. It was with the Avengers. Obviously. Because Peter couldn't catch a break.

His hands were sweating. He kept wiping his palms against the thighs of his jeans on the ride over, but it didn’t really help.

"God, Parker, stop shaking. It's just the Avengers." The reporter he was riding with, the one who would actually be giving the interview, gave him a look that told him exactly how pathetic she thought he was. "You're a New Yorker, aren't you? You see these guys all the time. You _photograph_ them all the time. Are you like this when you see Spiderman too? God, you must be a mess every day of your life." She sighed and turned to look out the window, resting an elbow against the lip of the van's wall.

Pet let out a little huff. "How thoughtful of you to ask, Connie. As a matter of fact, Spiderman doesn't make me nervous at all. We're friends."

 _Great one Parker_ , he thought to himself. _You really are pathetic, trying to use your own alter ego to give yourself some street cred_.

"Right," Cornelia ‘Connie’ Wagner said, "and I'm sure you're only nervous about the Avengers because Captain America is like a father to you and you don't want him to see how much of a loser you've become. Or maybe you're BFFs with Iron Man. Or maybe you're secretly in love with the Black Widow and you don't want the other Avengers to find out about your affair with her."

Peter did the mature thing and stuck his tongue out at her. 

"Seriously, Parker," she said, turning back to him, a softer-edged smile teasing at the corners of her mouth, "don't worry about it so much. They're just normal people. Albeit, with some pretty amazing powers, but they really are just people."

Peter hummed. "You've interviewed them before?"

Connie laughed. "No, Jameson's saved this ace for July's post-independence-day, pre-school’s-start lull. But I did meet both Iron Man and Dr. Banner at a science convention I was covering. God it was so boring, but I got to chat up the Hulk before he scurried away under Stark's arm, so that made the trip worth it."

Peter couldn't picture anyone trying to chat up Bruce Banner. Mostly because when he wasn’t hulked out Bruce was kind of a mousy man who would, as Connie had said, scurry away from uncomfortable situations.

“What did you think about Tony? Stark,” He corrected himself, because while he wouldn’t say he and Tony were _BFFs_ like Connie had jokingly said, they were some sort of friend and he was honestly curious about what she thought of him. Tony wasn’t really like, in real life, what he was like in the magazines and on TV. Peter had been surprised about that when they’d first interacted, but he supposed, later, that he shouldn’t have been. Tony Stark was Iron Man, after all, and someone shallow and vain wouldn’t have flown a nuke into a wormhole with as little regard for their own life, like Tony had.

“Hot,” Connie said, and ran a hand through her frizzy hair. “He is mmm-mmm, finger-lickin’ good.”

Peter felt his cheeks heating up, and he covered his face with this hands. “Oh my god, Connie, don’t say that.”

“You asked.”

“I _meant_ , what is he like personality-wise?”

Connie shrugged. “I don’t know. He was just talking science. He seemed nice I guess.”

Peter scoffed. “I suppose that’s why you went after Dr. Banner too? He was _smoking_ ’ ?”

Connie laughed. “No, I went after Dr. Banner because he’s a sweetie when he’s not all green. But I’ll make sure to tell him you think he’s got a hot bod.”

And in that moment the van came to a stop and Connie jumped out before Peter could say anything. He followed, clutching his camera to his chest, as she led the way into the tower. The same tower Peter had been in just a few months past. As Spiderman.

Though at the time he hadn’t actually gone through the front door, but now he was too busy being nervous, and trying to pretend he wasn’t nervous, to look around.

He wiped his palms against his jeans again.

Connie, thankfully, took the reins and let the receptionist know that they had arrived for the interview. They were shown up through an elevator around a corner, and were let out in what looked like a communal living space. It wasn’t the same living room that the New Years Eve Party had been held in. This one looked, well, fake. Peter might have been subjective on that point, but at the party it was obvious that the living area was well-used. Books scattered about, rugs kicked up, kitchen cabinets over-flowing onto the counters below. This room was nice, with a big long couch and several arm chairs, but it didn’t have that lived-in feel. Though Peter could, objectively, understand why the Avengers wouldn’t want to meet a reporter and photographer in their actual living room.

“Connie Wagner, from the Bugle,” Connie introduced herself, holding her hand out for first Tony Stark to shake, and then the rest of the Avengers, all in a row. They gave their names, and then their super hero alter egos, though Peter noticed that Scarlet Witch introduced herself just as Scarlet Witch, and Hawkeye did the same. Vision also just introduced himself as Vision, but Peter was pretty sure that was because he didn’t actually _have_ another name.

“And this is Peter Parker,” she waved him forward, and he nodded to each of them, keeping a firm grasp on his camera, “he’s our Photographer for today.”

“Welcome, both of you, to our happenin’ pad.” Tony led Connie and the team over to the couch and Peter began snapping away. He didn’t actually pay attention to what they were saying. He knew about the Avengers, he was at the very least acquaintances with them. It wasn’t like listening to the generic Q-and-A would help him get some insight into their souls or something. That’d just be ridiculous. 

And, ok, he really wanted to do well on this shoot. The better he did the more likely Jameson was to think of him the _next_ time he needed a photographer last minute. So he was concentrating. He wanted viewers to see these guys like Peter saw them. Kind but tough. Amazing. Something to aspire to.

And then Connie was standing up and was shaking all of their hands again, and wait, was it over already?

“That was quick,” Peter’s mouth said before it finished fully processing in his head.

Connie rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t say two hours was quick, Parker, but ok.”

Hawkeye laughed.

This time the Avengers made sure to shake his hand as well, which was, just, weird. Like, ok, yes, shaking hands with someone was polite. But it was, well, _polite_. And Peter had seen them at maybe not their best. He’d seen them drunk, or tied up, or bleeding everywhere, and this was a weird step backwards.

Scarlet Witch and Vision were distant, Thor was kind but loud in a way that felt more like a performance than anything else, Hawkeye was unsubtle in how amusing he found Peter’s discomfort, Black Widow was professional, and Captain America squeezed his hand tight and said, “Thank you, son. You did good work.”

It felt vaguely patronizing.

When he shook Bruce’s hand he couldn’t help but say what he’d always wanted to say to him, but never had the chance as Spiderman, which was, “Honestly, such an honor to meet a man so influential in the scientific community,” which made Bruce blush. Connie gave Peter a wink over Bruce’s shoulder, as if to say, ‘See? Look at that pooh-bear. I wanna eat him up.’ Peter worried for the man.

And then Tony was in front of him, and Peter didn’t really have time to say anything. “Wow kid, you’re pretty young, aren’t you?” He smoothed back his hair, and didn’t really look anything like he usually did. Peter didn’t mean he was a _skrull_ or a life-model-decoy or something. He just, he looked like he looked on TV. He looked like Tony Stark, billionaire, CEO, playboy. He didn’t look like, Tony, Peter’s therapist, mad scientist, Iron Man. “Hey, can I see those photos you shot of us today? Of course I can. I authorized all this. Don’t want any bad pictures of my perfect coiffure to get out. And look at Cap, he needs constant attention, did you get his right side? Keep him to single chins?” 

Peter found himself turning his camera over to Tony without a thought as the man continued to blabber. Tony flicked through the pictures, his look of concentration at odds with how light his voice sounded.

“And we can’t have any bad pictures of Black Widow over here getting out. She’d skin you alive and you’re such a small unassuming thing, I can’t imagine you’d be able to survive her.”

“Stark,” Black Widow said in warning.

“Of course, continue to take as many bad photos of Hawk-butt as you want. He’s a freeloader and deserves to be brought down a peg or two.”

“Oh shut it!” Hawkeye whined. “I only deserve the best. My pretty face should be on the covers of the magazines. Not yours, grandpa.”

“And look at that, you paid attention to the light and everything. You some sort of art student or something?” Tony flicked through a few more pictures and Peter still had not found a way to speak. “You know, these are actually good. Hey, Parker, what would you say to taking some more promotional shots of us. Maybe we should make an Avengers Calendar. I call Mr. September.”

“For Pete’s sake, Tony,” Steve chastised. “Leave the kid alone.”

“I’m serious,” Tony said, flicking through a few more. “These are very good. I should hire you.”

Peter shot Connie a pleading look. He had no idea how to get out of this situation. He didn’t actually want to spend more time as Peter with the Avengers than he had to. The likelihood of them figuring out who he was was too high. 

Connie, apparently, thought that his lack of ability to speak stemmed from some other fear altogether. “He’d love to,” she said with conviction. And then in a lower tone of voice, obviously meant for just him, but which had to have been heard by at least half the people in the room, “Go for it, Parker. God knows you’re strapped for cash. This opportunity could be a real gold mine.”

“Let’s talk shop right now,” Tony announced, and handed the camera back to Peter so quickly Peter almost dropped it, scurrying to take it back. “Come with me to my office, we’ll plan something out.”

Peter squeaked. 

“You don’t have to,” Bruce said softly, making sure to meet Peter’s eyes, “but if Tony likes your photos I think you should do it. Just don’t be scared off by him, he’s sort of rough and tumble.”

“Hey!” Tony objected.

“See ya later, Parker,” Connie said before making a bee line for the elevator. “Take the subway back to the bugle, or something. I’ll cover for you with Jameson.” And then she was gone.

Peter stood for a moment, shoulders tense, before Tony let out a sigh of annoyance. “Come _on_ , kid. Hussle.”

Peter nearly tripped over his own feet trying to hurry after Tony, and left the room with Clint snickering at his clumsiness.

By Tony’s office, he apparently meant his workshop, which Peter hadn’t thought Tony would like strangers stumbling around in, but that’s where the man led him, so that’s where Peter was. Again, not like he hadn’t been there before, it was just weird being there as Peter.

Tony stripped off his suit jacket and tie and unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt before falling back onto a spin-y stool. He looked much more like himself like that. Vaguely unkempt, surrounded by bits and bobs he could tinker with.

Peter stood awkwardly before him, not quite sure what to do or how he’d gotten here. “Mr. Stark,” he started, but never got to finish because Tony started talking again.

“I’ve got to say, Peter—” he paused for less than a second, “Can I call you Peter? I’ve got to say, Peter, it doesn’t look like being a photographer is a well-paying gig. I’m not sure how you can afford to live in New York at all considering how shitty your pay at the Bugle must be and how your other job doesn’t exactly have you rolling in it either.”

Peter frowned. “You know about me tutoring science at Midtown High? When did you even have time to Google me? We’ve been in the same room since we were introduced. And no, it doesn’t pay _that_ well, but some parents care more about their kids’ grades than their cash, so it’s not all awful.”

Tony looked surprised. “You tutor science to high school jocks, too? Never mind that. I meant your _other_ job.”

Peter’s eyebrows scrunched together in concentration. “Then you mean babysitting? Because that’s only a few times a month and Carmella can’t really afford to pay me much. I mean, I’m already her neighbor, so watching Lissy and Ken after school isn’t really a big deal.”

Tony quirked his head to the side. “Nope, try again.”

Peter rubbed his chin. “Sometimes I fill in for my friend—kinda friend—at some of her acting gigs. I’ve been a Santa’s elf three years running, but that’s more seasonal, and again, not on my resume or my linkedin or anything, so how could you know about that?”

Tony pursed his lips and crossed his arms and just stared at Peter. Glowered, more like it. 

“Or maybe you meant my summer interning for Reed Richards, because that was a fun time, don’t get me wrong, but it was unpaid and I had to quit after my aunt got sick, and—”

“Peter,” Tony said, interrupting him, “how is Wade doing?”

“Wade’s fine I guess,” Peter said without much thought. “We still hang out and stuff, which I am definitely more than ok with, but sometimes he looks at me like I’m supposed to do something, or he’ll nudge my shoulder and then be awkwardly silent, and I’m not sure what to do with that, so…” Peter shrugged.

Tony glowered some more.

And then…

“Oh! Oh!” Peter’s head jerked up and he really _looked_ at Tony. Really looked. “Oh! How—?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Took you long enough, web head.”

“Since when—? How long—? Do the others—?” He gestured helplessly upwards, towards the communal room.

“Calm down, Peter. I’m not an enemy here.”

Peter gulped.

“Ok, I figured it out during the shoot. I haven’t just been sitting on your identity for weeks or something. Just, they way you moved, how familiar you seemed with all of us. You fanboying over Brucie, it was all pretty easy to put together. I mean, kid, do you even _try_ to disguise your voice?”

Peter felt light-headed.

“Oh, I, um,” Peter swallowed. “So, the others…”

“They don’t know,” Tony said, “and they’re not _going_ to know. At least not from me. I don’t go around spilling others’ secrets. Swear on my arc reactor.”

Peter let out a small breath of relief.

“But now that I _do_ know, maybe I can at least help you pay some of your bills. Sounds like you’ve got a full work-load on top of being a vigilante, _and_ trying to sweep up your boy toy like a Hallmark movie?”

“He’s not my—I’m not trying to—boy toy?” Peter shook his head to clear it. “Mr. Stark—Tony, I don’t want any of your charity. I don’t need it. Just because you know my name doesn’t mean you need to _do_ anything for me.”

“Ok, first of all, I’m going to stop you right there. I’ve been listening to you blabber about how much you _pine_ after a _mercenary_ for ages. Kid, if that ain’t charity, I don’t know what is. I’m going to list it as a tax deductible. Second, I’m not going to just throw money at you. I’m classier than that. But I _am_ going to give you that photography gig I was bullshitting-ing upstairs. I’m serious. You do good work. I’m going to hire you.”

“I think,” Peter said, a little unsteadily, “that I’m going to sit down now.”

Tony gestured to a nearby stool as Peter folded himself down onto the ground. “Or you could do that,” Tony said.

Peter breathed out, and then back in, and then out again, slower. He thought he might be having a panic attack.

“Jesus, kid, it’s ok,” Tony said, and sat down in front of Peter. He didn’t make physical contact, but he was there. “I’m not going to tell anyone. You’re safe. No one here is going to hurt you.”

Peter shook his head because that wasn’t the problem. He breathed out again, ragged. “No one else knows.” 

Tony stilled. “What about your family?” Peter shook his head. “Friends?” Peter let out a wet laugh.

“What friends?”

“Wilson?”

Peter rubbed at an eye with the heel of his palm. “He refused the first time. I don’t really feel like any more rejections, thank you very much.”

Tony let out a purposefully annoyed-sounding sigh. “Alright, kid, well it’s just me. And Jay. But you trust Jarvis, don’t you?”

Peter nodded wobbly. He’d gotten quite fond of the AI who kept letting him sneak into the tower to bother Tony.

“Well good. And that’s it. Just us. You didn’t freak out when you were about to tell Wilson, did you?” Peter shook his head. “Well that just offends me, Parker. It really does.”

Peter let out a watery chuckle.

“There you go. Laughter’s the best medicine. At least that’s what Pepper always says. And she’s right about everything. Now c’mon kid,” he got to his feet and held a hand out for Peter, “let’s get you all cleaned up so my teammates don’t think I bullied you to tears.”

Peter let out another chuckle, slightly less wet, and figured that at least his fucked-up luck was good for something. If one of the Avengers had to find out who he was, Tony was the best choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like Connie as much as I like Dawna, but I _do_ really like her. Doubt she'll pop up again, though :(


	7. August

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a promise: Things will only get angstier before it gets better. Warning ;)

August

Pete sat cross-legged on Wade’s couch, sideways with his back propped against the armrest and his laptop resting on his knees. Wade was sprawled next to him on the couch, watching Jurassic Park with Spanish subtitles on his too-big-for-his-living-room television. The sound was on low, but all that did was allow Peter to hear Wade muttering under his breath about the dinosaurs whenever they came on screen. It was cozy, the two of them sitting together, sharing company, but working on separate things. Almost domestic.

Peter was editing photos of himself, well, of Spiderman, that he was planning on selling to Jameson. It wasn't the first time he'd worked on photo edits while still in his spandex. It was a combination, probably, of him being a lazy twenty-something and a stressed and tired vigilante. But it _was_ the first time he'd done any editing with the mask on, and it was definitely the first time he'd done it in the company of someone else _while_ he was dressed as Spiderman. It felt vaguely vain to make pictures of Spiderman look perfect, to make _Spiderman_ look perfect, while he _was_ Spiderman.

That was why he was sitting at the angle he was. If he was side-to-side with Wade there was no way the merc wouldn't have been able to see what Peter was doing on his screen. And it would have been impossible to explain why he was editing pictures of himself. Wade would probably hound him about running his own fan site or something until Peter finally just exposed his identity himself.

Which he wouldn't really object to, not the idea of it anyway, but he'd seen how well that had gone _last_ time. Wade wanted to keep Spiderman as Spiderman, and that was fine. Peter knew what he was to the merc. But if Wade wanted to keep him as only Spiderman, he wasn't going to go out of his way to give hints to whose face was beneath the mask. Therefore, he sat sideways, his laptop screen out of Wade's view and his profession out of Wade's mind.

The photos were ones he'd taken during a showdown with Doc Ock the week before. Beneath the suit, Peter still had the diminishing bruise from when Ock had thrown him through a wall. It was yellow and green and Peter didn't like how used he was to seeing his torso a rictus of oil spill rainbows. The photos didn't show that. In the pics he was strong. He was lifting Doc Ock over his head in order to toss him across the shambles that had once been a harbor, he was flipping through the air, he was shooting web after web. That version of him was indestructible. 

Peter's liberal use of Photoshop helped.

No, he didn't buff himself up or anything. He wasn't _that_ vain. But he maybe helped hide his face when his mask got torn, disguised his skin tone with the darkening of nearby shadows. He wasn't a whiz at it, so it took a little work, but he thought it was passable.

And these sets of photos he should have sold to Jameson days ago. But Peter had been busy. The Vulture had escaped from his cell and had left another bomb on the Baxter building. This time, thankfully, the Fantastic Four had been in residence so they had taken care of the bomb, but that left Peter to catch the buzzard again, this time without Wade's help, because Wade had gone on vacation (that's what he called it) to Rio for a week. And then he'd been in phone call after phone call with Pepper Potts and her secretary, _and_ her attorney, trying to set up a photo shoot for The Avengers Calendar which Tony had apparently been _serious_ about. Peter had to sign just reams of paper promising all sorts of things. He had to promise not reveal anything that the Avengers might let slip, and he had to promise not to post anything about when the photo shoot was going to take place, and he had to promise not to reveal to anyone exactly where the Avengers spent their time, and etc, and etc. So many confidentiality agreements. 

It would have been a lot easier if Ms. Potts had known Peter was a Super himself. If she'd known she probably wouldn't have been so aggressively against the whole endeavor. And, looking at it from an outside perspective, Tony Stark, scientific genius and brain of the future, _had_ just agreed to let some nobody photographer from a tabloid-esque newspaper into the Avenger's home with little to no thought. The fact that Peter had already been there multiple times and was extremely trustworthy was only known to one person: Tony Stark. And by default Jarvis too but Peter was ok with that. So, from the outside, this probably seemed like a really dumb idea. 

Peter had even once caught the tail end of Pepper trying to get Tony to cancel the whole thing over the phone, and Tony had even had time to refuse with finality before Pepper realized that Peter had answered the call. The conversation after that had been stilted and awkward, but the CEO didn't apologize or take back her word, so Peter supposed he had to give her some props for that.

But with all that hullabaloo Peter hadn't had time to go over and edit his photos yet, and he _really_ needed to get those done. Before tomorrow, preferably. But then Wade had shown up and asked if he wanted to hang that evening, and it had been so long since he'd seen Wade last. (A week in Rio counted as a long time.) 

It had come down to rent money versus Wade and Peter really wasn't sure he would have made the right decision, and then:

"Why the dramatic pause, Spidey? What? You got a hot date tonight you don’t want to cancel on? I promise I'm a lot more fun than she would be, whoever she is."

Peter laughed, and then sighed. "No, I've just got to get some work done for my day job that I really can't push back any longer. I wish I could come over tonight, I really do, but—"

"Well then come," Wade said, as if it was that simple, "and bring your work with you. Unless you're like a carpenter or something and need a whole work shop. Or a car. Are you a mechanic? I can clear out my coffee table, that might let a car fit in there."

Peter chuckled. "I don't believe a car would fit in your living room even if you went so far as to knock a wall out. But no, all I need is my laptop."

"Good. I'll make dinner and then you can work while I reenact my favorite movie scenes." He nodded as if that concluded everything. 

"Are you sure?" Peter asked. He hunched his shoulders a little. "I'm not going to be much fun while I'm working. Kind of just retreat into my own headspace."

Wade shrugged. "It's fine, Baby Boy. It'll be nice just to see you. Plus, you won't work _all_ night, will you?"

Peter grinned. "Definitely not."

"Then I don't mind playing the quiet game while you make spreadsheets or answer emails or write erotic fiction or whatever it is that pays your bills."

Peter snorted. "Erotic? Wade, I don't write _porn_."

"But you _do_ write, eh?" He stuck a finger in Peter's face. "I'm on to you, writer-man. Try to hide your erotica all you want, I know what you're up to."

Peter nearly doubled over in laughter. "All right, I'll come, I'll come. Let me just swing home and grab what I need."

And hours later, after a delicious meal of mofongo which Wade said he'd learned to make from a family in Puerto Rico, here they were on the couch together, Peter working and Wade mouthing along to Jeff Goldblum. It was actually very nice. Very domestic. Something warm settled in the pit of Peter's stomach, something that felt suspiciously like home. 

"So do you usually buy and sell your corporate stocks with spandex on?" Wade asked during a commercial break, "Or am I just special?"

"Corporate stocks! Wade, you know me. You know how much of a mess my life is. What part of that translates into business worker?"

Wade shrugged. "Company men can have hectic lives."

"Company men will get fired for skipping out on work every other day to wrestle evil Godzilla-monsters back into their sewer homes," Peter explained. He zoomed in on his shoulder, and had to press twice as hard on the touch pad to get it to pick up the pressure of his finger through his glove. There was a little triangle of flesh peaking out and Peter couldn't have that.

"Ok," Wade said, "well maybe you're freelance. Maybe you're a dog walker. Are you a dog walker, Spidey-poo? Are you pimping out your dog-walking website with pics of perfect pooches? Please say yes, I need more canines in my life."

Peter laughed. "No. I'm not a dog-walker. And even if I was, Wade, I wouldn't tell you. You'd probably track me down or something." 

Only of course he wouldn't. Because Peter had offered Wade his name once, his face, and Wade had refused.

Wade huffed and flopped back. "Yeah right. Like I'd be able to find you. There must be _hundreds_ of dog walkers in New York. You'd be impossible to find. It's not like you walk their dogs as Spiderman." He sounded bitter, but Peter couldn't guess why. "Though that _would_ be adorable, and I would pay good money to see you walking— _or swinging!_ —around New York with a gaggle of puppies surrounding you. But you don't. So of course I wouldn't be able to track you down. I don't know not-Spidey dog-walker's face. _No_ one does."

Peter didn't understand the outburst. Somehow this conversation had gone from silly to serious, and Peter wasn't sure when. It wasn't like Wade _actually_ wanted to see Peter's face. And while Peter's brain was preoccupied with thoughts of Wade's serious tone of voice, Peter's mouth opened and said, "Well not _no one_. Tony has seen my face, he knows my name."

Wade's mouth closed with a sharp click of teeth on teeth.

Peter finally focused on Wade and blinked, because if anything Wade looked _angry_. And out of all the emotions he'd caused by running his mouth, he honestly hadn't expected to anger Wade. 

"Tony?" Wade asked, glowering. "As in Tony Stark?"

"Do you know any other Tonys?" Peter snipped. It was unnecessarily rude, but Wade was getting angrier and Peter wasn't sure _why_. And that frustration made him lash out a little. 

"Well _I_ don't, but _you_ might. How would _I_ know? It's not like I know your real face. Not like _Tony_ apparently." When he said Tony's name he pulled it out, elongated it into something vile and oily.

"What's your problem?" Peter demanded, slamming his laptop closed and placing it onto the floor to remove it as a barrier between him and Wade.

"My _problem_ ," Wade snarled, "is that apparently you're a fucking idiot. You seriously chose Stark to out yourself to? Tony All-I-care-about-is-myself Stark? The womanizer who can't take anything seriously? The guy who parties so hard he forgets his own name? _That_ Tony Stark?"

"How dare you!" Peter snapped back, his pitch getting higher as his anger spiked. "You don't know the circumstances, so how dare you pass judgment. And for your information, Tony is a _great_ person and I trust him with my life, my name, _and_ my face. If all you see when you look at Tony Stark is a womanizer and party-guy then you aren't really looking at him at all. He's a genius, he's generous, and unlike _some_ people I know, at least I can talk to him whenever I need to."

Wade gasped as if he'd been slapped, and then he bared his teeth. "You _know_ you can talk to me about anything. You don't have to resort to clinging to—"

"I do not _cling_! And whatever you're about to say—"

"He's going to betray your trust one way or another, Spidey. He's going to let your name slip somewhere and you'll be ruined and you'll regret everything."

"Why would you say that?" Peter gasped out. He wrapped his arms around his torso, subconsciously seeking warmth he could not find. Why would Wade say these things? He'd ripped the rug right out from under Peter, and he was falling through cold air, unaware of what he'd done to make Wade so upset, and so _nasty_ , and unsure of when he'd hit the ground, but certain that he _would_ hit it. "Tony is so trustworthy," he felt forced to defend, despite how off-balance and reeling he was feeling internally. "He's Iron Man for fuck's sake!"

Wade seemed unaware of the consequences of what he was saying. He wasn't even looking at Peter anymore. He'd gotten to his feet and was stomping back and forth across the floor in front of the couch, arms gesticulating wildly.

"How could you possibly put your trust in Stark? In _any_ of the Avengers? They're in cahoots with SHIELD, and we both know that SHIELD can't be trusted for shit. All they want to do is collar us and use us for their own underhanded deeds. You trusted Stark and now he's going to hand you over to the eyepatch on a red and gold platter and you'll be experimented on and held captive and—and—"

"Stop!" Peter cried out, wrapping his arms tighter around himself. "Stop saying such horrible things! You _know_ they're not like that. You know SHIELD respects supers, and you _know_ the Avengers are trustworthy. Why do you keep doing this? Are you _trying_ to hurt me? Trying to freak me out?" His breath stuttered. And he felt an angry tear roll down his cheek and seep into the cloth of his mask. It only made him more frustrated, because Wade was being unreasonably cruel, but Peter didn't want his tear ducts to rush to his defense. He wasn't _sad_ , just confused and, more than that, angry! But he was an angry crier, and he didn't _need_ that right now, thank you very much. "Are you just trying to make me anxious? Make me paranoid about trusting the one person who knows my name and who _can_ ruin me? Why do you want to make me feel like this? Why are you _going out of your way_ to make me feel like this?" He shivered and tried to surreptitiously scrub at his cheek where the tear had left a burning brand against his skin. It didn't help, and when he spoke next, his voice cracked. "Do you hate me now or something? What the fuck, Wade."

That froze Wade in his tracks. The merc turned slowly on his heel, and when he got a look, an actual look, at Peter hunched in over himself, he collapsed on his knees in front of Peter. His hands fluttered around Peter as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with them.

"No. No, no, no," said the merc, as his hands hovered around Peter. "Are you crying? I wasn't trying to make you cry. Don't cry. Why are you crying?"

"Stop," Peter said, but instead of sounding angry or righteous, his voice sounded thick and wet and like he was crying. Which he was. It only made him angrier, which made more tears stream down his face because he had no control ever. "Stop trying to figure out whether to hug me or stay away from me or punch me or whatever you're worrying about. I'm not crying."

Wade touched Peter's mask-clad cheek with the tip of his index finger. He brought it towards him, angled in the dull light of his living room to see the sheen of wet. "Yes you are! You're crying right now, and it's soaking through your mask." He leaned forward pressing his chest against Peter's knees and wrapped his arms around Peter's waist before laying his head in Peter's lap. As angry as Peter was at Wade, he couldn't help but let out a wet chuckle at the odd position he found himself in.

"You're a dick," Peter said. "I thought I should let you know." He patted the back of Wade's head awkwardly.

"I know," Wade moaned. "I'm so sorry, Baby Boy. I'm so sorry." He tightened his arms, and Peter couldn't help the warmth he felt at Wade's actions. "I'll do anything you want to make it up to you. Please."

Peter paused to think about it, but Wade had apologized, there wasn't much else he wanted from the man. "You don't have to do anything special for me. You already said sorr—"

"No! I have to do _something_. I made you _cry_ , Baby Boy, and that is unacceptable. Do you want a Rolex? A new car? I'll buy you an island."

Peter chuckled, and this time it sounded dryer, and felt warmer. "I don't need you to _buy_ me anything, Wade."

"Then I'll make you something. Dinner. How does Thai sound?"

"It's not like I'm going to turn down free food, Wade, but you don't need to do anything. You said you were sorry."

"But I made you _cry_ , Spidey!"

Peter pushed at Wade's shoulders to lever the man off Peter's lap, and then took hold of Wade's chin so he could direct Wade too look up at Peter, to look him in the eyes. "Yes you did, but I'm an angry crier. I was upset, and my tear ducts decided to get involved." He let go of Wade's chin to rub at his eyes, but Wade didn't look away. "Just be careful what you say, ok? Some of that really hurt." Wade nodded emphatically.

"Of course, yes, I'll never say anything mean ever again. I'll cut out my tongue." He pulled a knife from his boot but Peter stopped him before he could raise it to his mouth. 

"Don't, don't do that. Wade. No dismembering. Seriously. Don't censor yourself completely. I like what you say most of the time. Just, I don't know, I feel like such a mom saying this, but think before you say something, how it would make the other person feel." Wade whined and surged forward to wrap his arms around Peter's waist again. "It's ok, Wade, no, really it is. Don't worry." He patted Wade's back. "Now stop kneeling down there. Get back on the couch. Let's watch something to get this sad taste out of my mouth."

"What about your work?" Wade asked, and brushed a hand against where Peter's laptop sat on the floor by his knee.

Peter shrugged. "I'll finish it later."

Wade twisted his fingers together, looking guiltier than hell.

Peter huffed, wrapped his hands beneath each of Wade's arms, and hauled him bodily onto the couch. "You're more important," Peter said with a wide grin, making his words light, but it felt as if he'd never said something more true. 

They watched movies late into the night, old classics in black and white, and Wade made fun of their way of talking and Peter laughed over the ridiculous plots, and the night returned to feeling like home, but it was softer, more fragile. Like for once Peter realized that it could, if pushed the right way, shatter.


	8. September

September

Peter was standing in front of the amassed avengers, who were wearing a mixture of chic casual clothes and business attire, and a very serious looking Pepper Potts, trying his damndest not to fidget with the camera strap that hung around his neck. It was difficult. Not only because Tony had actually been very serious (and yes, Peter had known this was coming, but he hadn’t really _believed_ it) about the Avengers Calendar thing, which was nerve-wracking, because no matter what Tony said, or thought, Peter wasn’t _actually_ an artist sort of photographer. He took photos for tabloid, for god’s sake. He was good, but he wasn’t _good_.

But beside that, it was also _hella_ stressful to be in room with all these heroes that Peter worked with on a regular basis as Spiderman, have to constantly be reminding himself not to be, well, like himself. His default, to being introduced (re-introduced?) to Captain America and Black Widow, and all and sundry really, had been to make a quip and begin some hardcore banter. Peter had curbed that instinct fast, but he was honestly afraid he’d slip up at some point, and so he was constantly aware of everything he said and did, which was super stressful, and he’d only just gotten there.

And it wasn’t just Peter who looked uncomfortable. Bruce was shifting awkwardly, Captain America and Black Widow were stone-faced, Thor looked confused, and Hawkeye was popping a rubber-band near Scarlet Witch’s ear making her look at him with annoyance. Even generally known good-guy Vision looked tense where he stood next to simultaneously blank-faced Falcon and War Machine. And of course, Pepper, standing off to the side with clipboard in her hands, looked almost murderous. The only person who seemed even the slightest bit ok with this was Tony, who was positively beaming as he rocked back and forth on his heels like a giant man-child.

“So,” Tony said, after a terror-filled second of Peter staring, wide-eyed, at the heroes before him, “I think it’s time we start, don’t you, Peter?” He bounded forward, took Peter’s arm, and towed him towards an area that had been set up with multiple back-drops. He dropped Peter’s hand when they’d gotten to a set with a long white leather settee and a grey fur rug, and flopped himself onto the leather. “Alright, photo-boy, paint me like one of your French girls.” He popped a button on his suit jacket, letting it fall open faux-seductively and pursing his lips. 

He was so _dramatic_. So ridiculous, so wildly Tony that Peter couldn’t help but smirk at him. He was still nervous, but at least he wasn’t alone. He had a friend here.

“I’ll have you know, Mr. Stark, that you are nowhere near as beautiful as my French girls.” He popped the lens cap off his camera and raised the view finder to his eye. He fiddled with adjustments for a second, zoomed a little, and then actually focused on Tony, who was crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue. Like. A. Child.

Peter lowered his camera so that he could stick his tongue out at Tony in revenge.

“Tony,” Steve chided, “you’re acting like a child.”

“Tony,” Pepper hissed at the same time, “take this seriously. You promised me you were doing this for real, and you weren’t just going to play around.”

“I _am_ taking this seriously,” Tony whined. He swiveled into an upright position, swung his legs so he was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the couch, rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, and pouted.

In a split second, perhaps too fast for totally human Peter Parker, Peter raised the camera to his eye and snapped a photo. 

Tony blinked at him. “Did you just take my photo? Before I could pose sensually? I am offended, Parker, honestly offended.”

Peter waved Tony off and looked at the photo he’d just taken. It was… good. Tony looked childish, yes, but open, fun-loving. Tony looked _young_. He looked care-free, not weighed down by his past and his duties. He wasn’t wearing his public mask. He wasn’t Tony Stark. Just Tony.

Peter shrugged, but when he looked Tony in the eye, he couldn’t help a shit-eating grin as he said, “It’s an ok shot.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Well don’t just stand there, Parker. I want to be a very alluring Mr. September, and I can’t be that if all you have is a picture of me with my bottom lip all a quiver. I need something…” he shrugged off one shoulder of his suit jacket, and looked at Peter through half-lidded eyes, “…seductive.”

Peter snapped another shot, because he honestly couldn’t give up the opportunity of a pic of Tony looking that ridiculous.

“If you’re not going to take this seriously, Stark, than you don’t get to go first,” said Scarlet Witch. She was wearing a red plaid dress with a short leather jacket thrown on top and knee-high black boots, and she had a big frown on her face. A big ol’ frowny face. Like she thought this was a big ol’ crazy endeavor and she was committed to hating every minute of it. “I’ll go first. I’ve got the most to gain.”

She waltzed over and lowered herself into a reclining position on the settee. She was like a model, immediately turning a graceful eye to the camera. A single strand of hair lay across her cheek, and her lips were parted like she was about to impart a secret. Next to her, still in the shot, Tony looked completely affronted and ready to start a slap fight.

Peter chuckled before taking three shots in quick succession. Tony was still in the shot, looking like someone had insulted Jarvis’s programming, but he could be cropped out later. Hopefully. “Alright, I guess if you want to—”

“No,” Tony whined, “ _I_ want to be Mr. September. Wanda doesn’t get to steal the month just because she doesn’t like my modeling.”

“Oh,” Peter said, without really thinking, “your name is Wanda. Cool.”

The look of wide-eyed surprise Tony and Wanda both turned on Peter, and the subsequent photo he took of their faces, would make a great addition to the blooper reel he was already planning on putting together. Just a small slideshow to hold over Tony’s head forever. 

“You didn’t know Wanda’s name?” Natasha asked from Peter’s left side. Peter jumped a little. He hadn’t known she was there.

“Well,” Peter said, scratching the back of his head, “no. No one does, really. Everyone knows she’s the Scarlet Witch, but her real name isn’t public knowledge.”

“And it _won’t be_ , right?” Pepper said, very menacingly. 

Peter nodded emphatically. He had no idea how a CEO could scare him more than the Black Widow, but she did.

“But _you_ didn’t know,” Bruce said softly, with a frown.

It was Peter’s turn to frown. “Well, no. How would I?”

The Avengers looked amongst themselves.

“I guess I assumed you would be told our real names,” Steve said, sounding apologetic.

“Well, you just introduced yourselves with your hero identities, and last time I was here Scarlet Witch and Hawkeye stuck with just their hero-selves,” Peter shrugged. “I figured you wanted to keep this on that level of professionalism.”

Steve frowned at him harder. “I’m Steve.”

“Sam Wilson,” said the Falcon.

“You can call me Rhodey.”

“I am Thor,” Thor announced.

“Natasha Romanoff.”

“Clint Barton.” 

“Of course you know lil’ ol’ me,” Tony said, fluttering his eyelashes.

“I am Vision,” said Vision, so that answered whether or not he had another name, Peter guessed.

“Wanda Maximoff,” Wanda said gently, as if she didn’t want to scare the poor civilian with her crazy witchy name. Right.

“And I’m Bruce—”

“Oh,” Peter said, unable to help himself from interrupting, “I _do_ know who _you_ are at least. I’ve studied your research on gamma radiation. You’re pretty big in the scientific community, Dr. Banner. I know I’ve said that before, but still.”

Bruce blinked. “You’re a scientist.”

Peter nodded. “Mostly it’s just in my free time nowadays. And tutoring at Midtown High. Photography is what pays the bills.” He raised his camera to eye level. “And on that note I’m changing the subject away from me. Thank you all for introducing yourselves. Wanda. Miss Maximoff? Wanda. Wanda, isn’t going to be Miss September, Tony. She’s obviously November.”

Tony blinked. Wanda blinked. Behind him, Peter heard Natasha chuckle. 

“Oh,” Tony said. “Well. Good.”

Wanda stuck her tongue out at Tony, a real emotion, not a rehearsed beauty, and Peter took the photo. Because that was who he was.

“Why November?” Wanda asked, turning back to Peter with her serious face back on.

Peter tilted his head to the side with a frown. “I mean, isn’t that what you were going for? Red plaid? The white couch? Fall and Winter meeting. You’re definitely November.” Peter gazed at the rest of the crew, assigning each of them the months that he thought would be best with their personalities and clothing choices in his mind. “I’ll get everyone sorted out, one at a time, but I think we should have group shots for January and December.”

“Why?” Pepper asked, sounding less hostile and more curious. Maybe the introductions had helped soften her. Maybe it was because now she could see he wasn’t just a weird side-project of Tony’s but an actual person.

“There’s only ten of them,” Peter looked at the Avengers, “of you. Twelve months, ten people. Two months can be group shots. The beginning and end of the calendar years. January and December.”

“Sounds good,” Pepper said, “now Tony, get off the couch. Give Wanda room to work.”

Tony grumbled good-naturedly, but removed himself from the settee. Wanda adjusted herself so she had one leg laying across it, and one propped on the floor. She threw an arm over her head, over the back armrest of the settee, and turned once more to look Peter in the eye with a tired-of-the-world look in her eye that clashed intriguingly with the better-than-the-world quirk of her lips.

“Have you done this before?” Peter had to ask as he snapped photos, moving himself forward and back, up and down, angling his camera every which way to capture the best of her.

“No,” Wanda said simply, “am I doing well?”

“Is she doing well,” Peter muttered to himself, before saying, louder, “you’re doing great. You should think about doing this professionally.”

“I don’t think so,” Wanda said, but she sounded flattered.

And then there was the shattering of glass, and someone had thrown Peter to the floor protectively before he could think to react, and Wanda was off the settee and floating above the room, her hands glowing a warm red. Peter’s first reaction should have been to see what had broken into Avenger’s tower and help stop it because he was a hero too. 

Instead, his first instinct was to start taking photos, because these were the Avengers, they could handle themselves long enough for Peter to get a few snapshots, and this was a once in a lifetime chance for Peter! He was _never_ this close to the action with his camera. He was usually fighting in it, so he never had the time to get close enough to get such precise photographs of the Avengers’ fighting stances, and how heroic they looked with the wind whipping through their hair, or their capes or what have you. 

And so Peter took some pictures. And they were damn good, even if he could only get one angle really (from the floor). It was worth it. And then whatever had caused the damage to the window made itself known. With a loud, grating, and altogether familiar voice.

“Iron Dude,” Wade called through the now breeze-filled room, “I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

Immediately there was a shift in the atmosphere. Fighting stances relaxed, if not all the way, than at least most of the way. Bruce, who Peter hadn’t noticed was missing, shuffled back into the room.

“Deadpool, what are you doing here?” Steve asked in his most Captain-y Captain America voice. He crossed his hands over his chest and raised his chin and all-together looked like a very disappointed dad.

“Not now, spangle-shorts,” Wade said, sounding way more confident than he usually did around the Captain. Usually, usually he was in total awe of the man. Wade was a bigger fan of Captain America than he was of the Golden Girls, and that was saying something. But, to look at Wade at the moment, Peter wouldn’t have been able to tell. He dismissed Steve completely without a second thought.

“Look, Deadpool,” Tony said, “we’re kinda busy right now with some serious Avengers stuff, so why don’t you come back during regularly scheduled visiting hours, hm?”

“No,” Wade practically growled, and Peter’s first thought was to go to the merc and calm him, lay a hand over the man’s shoulders, say something ridiculous, something that would make the man slow down and think. But, that was stupid, because he was Peter Parker right now, and Wade didn’t associate with Peter Parker, civilian and all-around normal Joe.

“Well then spit it out, Dead-head. Your swords are giving me hives just looking at them. We’ve got things to _do_.” 

“What,” Deadpool growled out again, “are your _intentions_ with Spiderman?”

Absolute silence. Peter could have heard a pin drop from another floor it was that quiet. And then:

“Intentions?” Tony asked, flummoxed.

“What do you mean, intentions?” Steve asked.

“Like, romance-wise?” Clint asked and faked gagging.

Wanda gave Tony a disgusted look. “He’s my age! That’d be like if you went after that photographer!”

“What photographer?” Wade butted in at the same time Pepper said, “You say that like Tony _isn’t_ flirting with the kid every chance he gets.”

Tony actually did gag. “No! Ugh, no. Definitely not. No… to either of them. Too young. Oh so young. Oh my god.”

“That’s never going to happen,” Peter thought he should point out, very frankly.

“Why do you have a photographer?” Wade asked, staring right at Peter, and it was the first time Wade had seen Peter’s face, ok? And Peter was freaking out a little bit, because Wade was _looking right at him_. 

And then he looked away, back at Tony, and Peter felt the loss like a frost blowing across his bones. 

He _really_ had to get a handle on his feelings. This was embarrassing. 

“Wait,” Clint said, “you thought Tony was banging the photographer.”

“I’m going to be sick,” Tony moaned.

“Wow, insulting,” Peter said to Tony, because he had to focus on something other than Wade. “Not that I’d ever want that to happen in a million years, but wow.”

“Oh you know what I mean,” Tony griped.

“Yes,” Thor said, answering Clint, and Rhodey and Sam nodded.

“I didn’t think they were actually _doing it_ ,” Pepper said.

“Well thank god for that,” Tony said. “Small mercies.”

“But I was pretty positive he wanted to,” Pepper continued.

“Why?” Tony groaned, loudly and annoyed. “Why would you think I was trying to get busy with a twenty-something year old?”

“If it makes you feel better,” Clint said, “I thought the Parker-kid was like your illegitimate love child from some one-night stand of yours twenty years ago that you just found out existed and you wanted to help financially and get to know better without compromising his independence.”

Peter peered at Clint through narrowed eyes.

When no one said anything, Clint’s eyes widened. “Was I right?”

“No!” Peter and Tony said at the same time. 

“How did you come to _that_ conclusion?” Natasha asked.

Clint shrugged. “Made more sense than secret lovers.”

“Enough about the photo-kid,” Deadpool said, tearing apart the conversation with the force of his own desire for knowledge. “I want to know Stark’s intentions towards Spidey.”

“What _intentions_?” Tony asked, exasperated.

“Your intentions,” Wade said all smarmily. “I want to know what you think you’re going to do with Spidey now that you know…” he looked around the room shiftily, “…things.”

Peter wanted to smack himself in the face. Was this Wade questioning Tony about Tony knowing Peter’s identity? Of course it was, because Wade had no tact and zero subtlety.

“What does _that_ mean?” Rhodey asked. He’d stayed pretty silent up till now except letting out a few chuckles when Tony’s possible relationship with Peter was brought up. Now, however, he was getting well and truly riled up to defend Tony.

“It means,” Tony said placatingly, “that Spiderman entrusted me with his secret identity,” (not quite accurate, but who was Peter to say?) “and now Deadpool is jealous.”

“You know who Spiderman is?” Steve and Natasha asked at the same time, but with vastly different tones. Steve was in awe. Natasha was, well, incredulous was a kind way of putting it.

“I’m not _jealous_ ,” Wade objected.

“You are,” Tony said.

“Wait,” Rhodey cut in, “how did Deadpool know about this before I did?”

“Yeah, man,” Clint said, “teammates come first! Why didn’t you tell us?”

“It was none of your business,” Tony said with finality, and a level of maturity that Peter often forgot he had.

“Ok,” Wade said, “I admit that, maybe, twenty percent is jealousy.” Tony raised an eyebrow. “Twenty-five. No, but seriously, Aluminum-man, I didn’t come here because I was jealous.”

“No,” Tony said, sounding like he didn’t quite believe that, “you came here because you want to know how trustworthy I am with Spidey’s secret.” He cut a quick, almost indecipherably fast look at Peter, and then he was staring at Wade with an unimpressed expression. “I am very trustworthy. I was a weapons dealer and before that a teenager. I know how to keep a secret, especially one that isn’t my own.”

“Hmmph,” Wade grumbled. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

“Do you trust Spidey?” Natasha asked, apparently apropos of nothing.

“With my heart and my life and all the chimichangas in the sea,” Wade answered earnestly.

“Then that should be enough,” Natasha said. “You trust Spiderman, Spidey trusts Tony. You should trust Tony too.”

Wade pondered that for a moment, and Peter held his breath, and then finally, Wade nodded. “Fine. But, listen here, Stark-raving-mad. Know that if you ever so much as hurt a single hair on my beautiful Baby Boy’s head I will sever yours from your neck.”

Peter’s heart fluttered at how protective Wade sounded, and then he mentally berated himself, because no, stop it! He had to stop considering Wade like that. Wade did not want him. He was just doing what any friend would do for another friend with a secret identity.

And then Wade was gone, back out the window and into the cooling air. Autumn was coming.

Peter shook his head.

“Alright, well,” Peter said, clapping his hands together, “that was a bit of excitement, but I only have today to take these photos so let’s get a move on. Wanda, back to the settee if you would? And I’ll be taking Sam’s photo next, sitting at that oak table, so if someone wouldn’t mind cleaning up the glass?”

“Huh,” Pepper said, looking a little shaken, “You meet a mercenary and are ready to go back to work right away? Maybe you’ll fit in just right with this crowd after all.”

Tony snorted, and then tried to cover it with a cough.

Peter gave Tony an unenthusiastic look, and said with his most deadpan voice, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m sure anyone else would react the same. Now, Wanda?”


	9. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, so sorry for the late(ish) update. I got sick, and i'm still at the tail-end of it, so writing is slow, and motivation is nonexistent, and I now have to cat-sit for my roommate??? Anyway, that's not what you're here for. But I do apologize, and I give you some drunk Peter

October

Peter was drunk. Not, he knows, his best state to be in. In fact, the last time he was this drunk he kind of had mind-blowing sex of the one-night-stand variety with the man that he could admit, since he was very drunk, was the love of his life.

So, not the best track record. Peter was aware, thank you very much. 

But that was just it, wasn’t it? Peter had given in. He’d opened himself up (metaphorically) for one night, let his emotions propel his actions, and look where it had gotten him. He’d slept with the man he loved, and had been promptly reduced back to being a platonic friend of the bro kind. And then, when he thought he could get over the guy, get over Wade (admit his name) and go back to being just bros, he couldn’t. That isn’t to say he wasn’t trying. He _was_ trying. He had _been_ trying, for what felt like ages. Since January. For ten months he’d been trying and trying to squash down his feelings and just let it all go back to how it had been before.

That wasn’t working, at least not internally. Yes, Peter was still Wade’s friend. Yes, they still hung out all the time, but there was no closure. And Peter couldn’t move on. He’d been handed a relationship with Betty Brant on a platter and he’d thrown it away. Literally thrown away her phone number. So he couldn’t move on, but he was never going to have a relationship with Wade, so he couldn’t move backwards either. He was stuck here, right here, in the limbo between love and contentment, unable to fall off this knife’s edge.

He was stagnating, and it was killing him.

Thus the alcohol. 

The Spidey-suit was an added bonus. He hadn’t originally meant to get drunk as Spiderman, but he was already wearing the suit when he found the unopened bottle of vodka rolled behind a trashcan in a side-alley, and he’d meant to go home anyway, patrol was over, so why wait? The roof was right there, dozens of stories above his head, waiting for him to wallow.

So wallow he did.

He took a swig straight from the bottle, a big one that burned a little as it went down, but if he wanted to stay intoxicated he had to be fast and free with the alcohol, and by this point the bottle was almost empty.

“Why,” he asked aloud to the empty night sky, “why does he never mention it?”

“Why does he never mention what?” A voice asked behind him and Peter shrieked a little (he was man enough to admit how juvenile he sounded). There was a movement, and then Wade sat down beside him, rolled up his mask, and snatched the bottle of vodka. He drained what was left of it in a second and didn’t look even the slightest bit altered. Not enough vodka to get the merc-with-a-mouth wasted. 

“How did you get here?” Peter asked, a little off his game. He looked around, but he wasn’t sure what for. Maybe to search for Wade’s transportation? An invisible jet? A grappling hook?

“I saw you swaying up here all alone and figured I’d help a brother out. See what was bugging you. Get it? Cuz you’re a bug? And then you were talking to the moon or some shit, being all cryptic. So, I wanna know now. Who is ‘he?’ What doesn’t _he_ never mention? And why doesn’t he mention it?”

Peter scowled at Wade. “Why’re you so confusing? Stop that.”

Wade leaned back a little. “Wow, Baby Boy, you really _are_ wasted. I can smell the fumes from here.” He held the bottle up to his eye. “How fast did you drink this thing?”

Peter looked at the bottle mournfully. “I was drinking that.”

“I know, Baby Boy,” Wade said slowly and softly. “Trust me, I know.” 

Wade’s voice reminded Peter of snow, not how it felt, cold and wet, but how it looked on its first morning, pure, and soft, and glittering under the sun.

“You’re like glitter,” Peter admitted to Wade. “You sparkle so much. It must be tiring.”

Wade made a face. “I’m not sure if that was an insult or a compliment. You’re not calling me a Cullen, are you?”

“Shine bright like a diamond,” Peter confided to Wade in a whisper, and then laughed so hard he fell backwards so he was lying on the roof, looking up at the stars.

Wade chuckled. “Anything you say Baby Boy.” He paused. “Hey, you mind if I hang with you for a little? Just wanna make sure you don’t try to go swinging before you sober up a little, eh? That would be a little scary for me.”

Peter remembered the way Wade had screamed that night, as the wind whipped around them. He could picture Wade’s face. It had happened so recently. It had happened so long ago. 

“It _was_ scary for you,” Peter conceded, and then, “I should be sorrier?” 

Wade tilted his head to the side. “Watching you swing around town drunk off your ass? I don’t think I’ve ever been in _that_ exact circumstance.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Semantics. You know what I mean.”

Peter couldn’t see Wade’s face, but he got the distinct impression that Wade was blinking at him. “Oooooo-kay,” Wade said drawing the word out. “You’re going to explain that to me when you’re sober and are making more or any sense at all.”

“I love talking to you,” Peter agreed. “I could talk to you all night. All day. All forever forever forever forever forever…” He trailed off, after realizing that he’d gotten stuck in a loop of forevers.

“That’s sweet, Spidey,” Wade said, “but perhaps you should go to sleep. Sleep this off. You’re kinda really out of it and you probably have, like, zero inhibitions right now. You might say something you’ll regret tomorrow.”

“I won’t regret anything tomorrow. I never regret anything tomorrow. Sometimes I regret not being regretful but that’s just a personal problem, don’t worry about it.”

Wade paused again. “I _am_ worried about it, because nothing you say makes any sense. Zero sense, my smol Spider. Zero.”

Peter frowned. “It’s not a lack of communication, it’s just I’m probably saying words bad. I have the things to say but my mouth just keeps going bluh blubh blugh.”

Wade sighed, and then lay down beside Peter on the roof. Peter suddenly worried how uncomfortable the concrete would be for the merc, before realizing that he’d been laying on the same concrete without worrying a wit for his own comfort. 

“Can I ask you something?” Peter asked, quiet, knowing this was probably a bad idea, but just drunk enough to actually go through with it.

“Of course, Baby Boy,” Wade said as he pulled his arms up to rest his hands under his head. “You can always ask me anything.”

“Anything?” Peter asked with an eye-brow waggle Wade couldn’t see, his train of thought shifting momentarily towards something filled with more innuendo. 

Wade laughed. “You know it, hot stuff.”

Peter frowned, getting back on track. “Wade, why do you act like New Years Eve never happened?”

Wade started. “New Years Eve?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, reaching a hand up to trace the constellations, “you know. The last day of December. The last day of a year. The day before a new year. New Year’s Eve.”

“I know what New Years Eve is,” Wade scoffed. “What about it?”

“Why don’t you ever talk about it?” Peter took a deep breath. “Why don’t you ever talk about New Year’s Eve?”

Wade shook his head, grabbed at Peter’s arm, and rolled Peter over a little so he could look Peter in the eye. Peter didn’t want to have to see Wade when he answered. He’d rather keep an eye towards the tiny specks of sun billions of light years away. Something so far away couldn’t hurt him. Wade looked worried though, the furrow of his brow crinkling his mask. “What is there to talk about?”

Peter sighed, more annoyed than hurt. “This is the problem, Wade. This lack of communication. Tony said it, and he was right. Communication is important.”

Wade’s expression grew more pinched. “I am so confused, Baby Boy. I am _trying_ to communicate right now. I am. I just don’t know what you want me to communicate about.” He frowned even harder. “You’ve been talking to Tony about me.”

Peter reached over and slapped Wade sloppily across the face. The merc barely reacted. “Of course I’ve talked to Tony about you. What _else_ am I supposed to talk to Tony about?”

Wade looked flabbergasted. “Uh, science? Being a hero? I don’t know, not an unaliver-for-hire who you barely tolerate.”

“I don’t _barely tolerate you_!” Peter practically shrieked, jerking upright. “You are the best friend I’ve ever had, and you are my most favoritest person ever, and I lo—” Peter cut himself off and tried again, not speaking so quickly, “I like you. I like you. Why would I talk about anything else?”

“Oh,” Wade said, so softly, like velvet running over Peter’s skin. “I thought you—I didn’t know you _liked_ me—I didn’t—”

“Is that why?” Peter asked, leaning over Wade, who was still on the concrete, staring towards the stars. “Is that why you don’t talk about New Year’s Eve?”

“No,” Wade said, too quick, and Peter’s heart sank. “I—I’m so _confused_ , Baby Boy. What is there to talk about? Why would I ever talk to you about New Year’s Eve? It’s not like there’s something special about that day.”

Peter collapsed backwards, heart in tiny slivers exploding outward, piercing through the sinews, the ligaments, the flesh. Everything hurt.

“Oh,” Peter said quietly, as he wrapped his arms around himself, trying to hold himself together because he was very, very sure that he was in fact falling apart. “I—I should have guessed.”

“Guessed what?” Wade asked, sounding so, so concerned. Even when he was breaking Peter’s heart he was still trying to hold it together in whatever way he could. In any way that didn’t compromise his own lack of love towards Peter.

“You’re so sweet,” Peter said, voice so small.

“Spidey,” Wade said, sounding strangely serious, and sitting up, “please answer me. Guessed _what_? What did you guess?”

“I mean,” Peter said, having heard Wade, but not really understanding what he meant, “I guess I _did_ guess. That’s why I never brought it up before. And I was right. And tomorrow I’ll be right again.” He swayed a little. “I want to go home. Please. I want to go to sleep.”

Wade leaned forward and grasped Peter’s upper arms. He squeezed a little. Not too tight, not commandeering, not patronizing, but warm and kind and soft and too much too much too much. “Please tell me, Spidey. Spiderman. _What_ did I do? What am I supposed to know about New Year’s Eve?”

What did he do? What _did_ Wade do? All Wade did was follow Peter’s flow. Peter instigated. Peter asked. Wade agreed. Wade didn’t make any promises or declarations of love. Wade didn’t even imply there would be more. It was just Peter and his hopes and his dreams.

“Nothing,” Peter sighed out, letting his arms fall away from him. He slumped forward a little, just a little, but Wade took the extra space and wrapped his arms around Peter’s shoulders. It was the softest hug ever. Peter sighed again. “You didn’t do anything, Wade. This isn’t your fault. None of it is your fault.”

“ _What_ isn’t my fault?” Wade asked searchingly, holding Peter tight. 

Peter shook his head. “Can you just take me home? I want to go to sleep. I wanna go home. I’ll be better in the morning, I promise.”

“You don’t have to be better in the morning. You’re fine. I just…” Wade shifted, squeezed tighter, and then dropped his arms. “Please tell me what’s happening.”

Peter placed his hands on Wade’s shoulders and wobbled to his feet, using Wade to steady himself. “I’ll see you sometime? We can…video games? This week? Next week? Maybe we can punch Doc Ock in the face? He hurt me real good a few months back. Real bad? Hurt me real bad? I need to…” Peter stumbled to the edge of the roof, “punch him in the face.” Before he could jump, shoot out a web, go swinging through the night, Wade was behind him, and arm wrapped around Peter’s stomach, stopping him from moving.

“Don’t _do_ that,” Wade hissed. “You’re too drunk. I can take you home, keep you safe on the way. That is…” he trailed off, and then seemed to reaffirm his resolve, “if you don’t mind me knowing where you live. I promise I won’t look up who you are.” Bitter. Wade sounded so bitter again. Why?

“Why?” Peter asked. “Why are you so—are you coffee?”

A chuckle was drawn from Wade’s lips, and from the way he tensed behind Peter, Peter could guess it was unexpected. “Coffee?” Wade asked.

“You’re like coffee sometimes. Sweet and bitter.” Peter shrugged. “Take me home? Please?”

“Babe—Baby Boy, I mean, I don’t know where you live.”

Peter frowned, and leaned forward, forgetting for a moment that he was on a roof’s edge until he felt Wade’s arm tighten around his middle. “You forgot?”

“I never _knew_ it,” Wade insisted.

Peter thought on that. New Year’s Eve. Wade _had_ been drunk. Maybe he hadn’t paid attention during the trip. Peter shrugged. “Too drunk, it’s ok.”

“Yes, you are,” Wade said, and his tone was that of agreement, even if the words he said made no sense.

Peter shook his head. “I think nothing is making sense. I think.”

“How about this?” Wade asked, “How about I take you back to my place and you sleep this off on the couch, hmm?”

Peter sagged against Wade’s arm, the only thing keeping him up. “Ok. Ok. Tomorrow I’ll be better.”

Wade sighed, and then with a move that was too fast for Peter in his intoxication to follow, scooped Peter into his arms. It was nice. Warm. And then Peter was being rocked, warm in Wade’s arm as he walked, and it still felt like home, even if home was just friendship. Home can be friendship, home can be coffee, home can be lack of communication, Peter decided, as long as home felt like Wade’s arms holding him up and keeping him warm.


	10. November, December

November

Peter sat on the ceiling of Tony’s workshop, legs crossed, and elbows propped on his jeans-clad knees. Below him (above him?) Tony was flipping through the final mock up of the Avengers Calendar. Peter had spent hours and hours of time he didn’t really have sorting through all the photos from the photo-shoot, choosing the very best, the photos that made the heroes jump from the page. He’s put in effort and time and had wasted many a microwave burrito getting caught up in editing the photos to look the best he could make them. He’d done a damn good job, if he did say so himself, and all Tony was doing was flipping through the pages dismissively. He spent seconds on each page before going to the next one, and when he got to the back he just started over again.

It was _tense_. Peter knew he’d done well with his photos, and he knew that whatever graphic designer Tony had hired to make the actual layout had done a damn good job herself. So why, why did it feel like he was on the chopping block? He already _had_ the job. It wasn’t like Tony was going to take it back now.

“So,” Peter asked, a little tersely, “do you like it? Is it good? Why don’t you actually look at my photos?”

Tony closed the calendar and began fanning himself with it. He looked up at Peter with a purposely blank expression. 

Peter’s stomach sank.

“You hate it,” Peter bemoaned. “I knew it, you hate it and you’ve been too nice to say anything, but the photos are crap. I _knew_ I should have—”

“No!” Tony said, jumping to his feet. He was obviously uncomfortable straining his neck in order to look straight up at Peter, but he did it anyway. “No, Peter, it’s not about the calendar. I want to talk to you.”

Peter frowned. “What about?” He placed his hands flat against the ceiling on either side of himself and pushed until he was falling. Then all it took was a flip in order to land on his feet. It was easier looking Tony in the eye when they were standing on the same floor. “So,” Peter said, and shifted his weight a little, “if it’s not about the calendar…?”

Tony clapped a hand down on Peter’s shoulder. “Pete, can I call you Pete? Pete, I think we should probably discuss the very mercenary-ish stalker who you’ve been crying to me about—”

“I haven’t been _crying_!” Peter said, offended.

“—for the past year! Peter, a year you’ve been coming to me!”

“It’s hardly been a year, Tony, don’t exaggerate.”

“Ten months,” Tony corrected. “There, is that better? The _point_ that I’m trying to make is for the past ten months you’ve been whining to me about how your one-night-fling-slash-one-true-love didn’t love you back etcetera etcetera, right? And then he busts into my house—”

“It wasn’t even one of the communal floors!”

“I live here. This entire Tower is my house, Peter, don’t fight me on this. And it doesn’t matter that no one lives on that one floor, because he broke my window just to give me the _shovel_ talk about you, web-head.”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed scratching his head, “that _was_ pretty weird, but Wade is weird, so I guess it makes sense in his head.”

“Peter,” Tony said, drawing his name out slowly. He put both hands on Peter’s shoulders and didn’t speak until he had both of Peter’s eyes fixed solely on him. “Peter, my poor sweet summer child. Wade was _jealous_.”

Peter’s brow furrowed. “Of what?”

Tony blinked, and then threw his hands into the air. “How are you this dense, Spider-kid? He was jealous of me knowing your identity before he did. That was _blatantly_ obvious. So obvious. The next day Steve asked me, and this is Steve ‘what-are-relationships, how-do-I-flirt’ Rogers I’m talking about, if Deadpool and Spiderman were seeing each other. Steve said that. To me. About you, and Mr. Killer-for-hire.”

Peter rubbed his forehead. “No, he was just worried about my safety. That’s what friends do.”

“He broke. Into. My house. To give me the shovel talk. About your _identity_ , you utter _dimwit_. He told off all the Avengers! That is _not_ normal Wade Wilson, behavior, my small Spider-child. He has got it bad. For you.”

“No,” Peter said, shaking his head, “definitely not. He’s just worried you might betray and sell my identity to SHIELD or on the black-market or get me killed or something.” 

Tony crossed his arms and glowered. “First, I am very offended that my young padawan would talk about me that way, Peter.”

“His words!” Peter defended.

“Mmm-hmm. And second, I’m sure he actually said all of that, but it all translates, in his Deadpoolian brain to ‘I am massively in love with Spiderman and am hella jealous you got to know his super secret identity before I did because I love him so much I lose all ability to function like a rational adult even though I’ve never even _been_ a rational adult.’ Peter he _likes_ you.”

Peter shook his head again, this time a little more frantically. “No. He definitely doesn’t like me.”

“Yes. He does. And I am one-hundred percent sure it’s more than like. That boy loves the hell out of you.”

“He can’t!” Peter gasped out. “He would have said something! We had _sex_! Why would he have never brought it up if he liked me?”

Tony shrugged. “I don’t know, Parker.” He ran a hand through his hair and then went back to fanning himself with the calendar. “Look, I’m not claiming to be all-knowing about your lover boy. I’m not even going to pretend that I know what his brain is thinking or what it’s been thinking since fucking January. I’m not a mind-reader, and around Wilson, I’m glad I’m not. What I _do_ know is what I can see. And it is obvious to me when I look at him, that he is head over fucking heels for you.”

Peter scoffed. “Definitely not. And—and even if that _was_ true, which it isn’t, he doesn’t like me anymore.”

Tony’s brow furrowed. “Why? What happened?”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “I did something stupid. I got _really_ drunk a few weeks ago and then Wade showed up and…” he trailed off.

Tony scrunched his brows together, cocked his head to the side, and gave Peter a confused look. “Did you hook up again?”

“No! No, nothing like that. Or, well,” Peter dragged his hand down his face. “Ugh. I don’t _know_.”

“You don’t know if you had sex with him?” Tony asked. “I’m not judging. Lord knows I don’t have the most savory of pasts. Unless you didn’t consent, in which case I’m going to go put on my Mark 42 and tear that sonovabitch limb from limb, scattering his flesh across the known universe so he can never—”

“No! We definitely didn’t have sex. Don’t,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, “kill Wade. All we did was talk.”

Tony relaxed. “Well then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t remember what we talked _about_! I was wasted out of my mind. I remember saying something vaguely embarrassing, I remember lying on a roof together,” Peter shrugged, “but I don’t remember exactly what I said to him. And then I woke up the next day on his couch and just booked it out of there.”

Tony raised an eyebrow and blessed Peter with his _most_ unimpressed look. “You have no idea what you said to the man and then you ran. How brave of you.” He rolled his eyes. 

“Oh shut it. I’m an emotionally unstable millennial. Give me a break.”

Tony sighed out through his nose. “Ok, well, did he bring it up the next time you saw each other?” Peter avoided eye contact. “Peter? Did he _not_ bring it up?”

“I, maybe, might, have possibly not entirely visited him since then. I’ve kind of been avoiding him?”

Tony whapped Peter on the back of the head with the calendar.

“I probably deserve that,” Peter admitted. 

“How long has it been?”

Peter winced. “Almost a month.”

Tony groaned. “What the _fuck_ , kid?”

“What do you want from me? I was freaked out! And so, you’re wrong, he obviously doesn’t like me. And if he ever did, probably the drunk conversation of embarrassing who-knows-whats and then month of radio silence turned him off.”

“You’re so young,” Tony groaned. “That’s not how love works. You can’t just turn off your feelings.”

Peter scoffed. “I think I’d know that by now, wouldn’t I?”

“Yes,” Tony said baldly, “you should know that. A little month of avoidance, that’s practically nothing in the long run. Your boy still likes you and is probably just wildly confused about you avoiding him. Go talk to him.”

Peter slumped. “I guess I should.”

“There’s no guessing about it. Go see him. Right now. Go confess your undying love or whatever and watch freaking glittering hearts shoot from his eye sockets.”

“Maybe,” Peter said. “I mean, after we finish looking at the mocks. Mrs. Potts said she wanted them okay-ed by today right? So we can get them printed before Thanksgiving? So tell me what’s wrong so I can fix them real quick-like.”

Tony looked at the calendar he was holding in his hands, almost as if he was surprised to see it sitting there. “It’s perfect. I thought I said that already. I guess it slipped my mind.”

Peter’s eyes just about bugged right of his head. “Perfect? No, there must be some issue I can fix—”

Tony flapped the calendar against Peter’s head and then turned around and began walking from the room. “The pictures are great, the calendar’s awesome, I’ll go give the specs to Pep myself, send them to print. You go talk to your one true love, Buttercup.”

“What?” Peter screeched. “I can’t just—what should I say to—how could I—I can’t possibly go see him right now! I’m not prepared!”

Tony shrugged, just a few steps from the door. “Talk to him, you idiot. The pics are perf, there’s nothing left to get in your way. And you’re banned from my tower until you learn to use your words.” And then he was out of the room.

“What?” Peter asked the empty workshop. “What? No! Tony!” No answer was forthcoming. Peter bit his knuckle. “Alright, I guess I’ll just… go.”

☃

December

Peter was an adult. At least, that what Aunt May kept telling him. And adults weren't supposed to avoid their one-night-stands-slash-best friends-slash-main love interest just because they got black out drunk and might possibly have said something either embarrassing or incriminating to their...whatever. 

Or, at least, that's what Tony Stark kept telling him.

And even if Peter wasn't an adult (he certainly didn't feel like one) it was kind of a shitty thing to do to a friend, and Wade was, if nothing else, a very good friend. 

And Tony had been wrong about the like-liking thing, because no way in hell did anything in the past _year_ make sense if Wade liked him back, but Tony was right that Peter should go talk to Wade. Because he was an adult. And it was the right thing to do. 

Peter also just procrastinated seeing Wade until December, though that fell more under the category of Peter being emotionally-stunted and a child at heart. But it was December first and Peter wanted to not be a small idiot any longer, so he decided to track down Wade and like, talk, or something. Whatever adults did.

It didn’t take long for him to find Wade at all. All he had to do was follow the yelling.

He found Wade in a stripped out, industrial looking loft apartment in a deserted part of town. He took one look at Wade, straightened his shoulders, and forced himself to actually grow up and start talking before he lost the nerve.

“The problem,” Peter began, “is that I suck at being an adult.”

“Hey, Spidey?” Wade asked from where he was strapped to the table with inch-thick metal bars. “Could you maybe tell me this _after_ you get me outta here?”

“Oh sure,” Peter said, and began prying the bars away from Wade’s body, but he continued talking as he worked. “But, you see, I’m a really bad adult. Or, I mean, I’m bad at _being_ an adult. I’m not good at compromising, or communication.” He paused to gesture dramatically between the two of them. “I mean look at us. You’re not too great at communicating either, if I’m being honest. Which I _am_ being, because honesty is also part of being an adult, and I’m trying to be a better adult so I can apologize.”

“Spidey!” Wade snapped, and wriggled against the bars still holding him down.

“Oh right, sorry,” Peter said, and went back to work. “But listen, I _am_ trying to be more competent, and this is about my inability to adult well, not yours, so I just really wanted to apologize for, like, the radio silence of the last month.” He leaned in close to Wade’s face so that Wade could look him in the eye. Or at least he _would_ have been able to look him in the eye if they weren’t both wearing masks. “It was shitty of me to avoid you like that. You’re my best friend and I’ve been a crappy friend in return.”

Wade cleared his throat rather loudly and then bucked up against the last of the iron bars.

“Oh right,” Peter said, and ripped it off.

Wade jumped to his feet and began fetching the piles of junk around the room that Peter had taken to be just, well, junk, but up close turned out to be Wade’s belongings. 

“So anyway,” Peter said, watching, but not really paying attention as Wade gathered up his stuff, “I thought I’d come find you, because I really avoided you for too long. And that wasn’t being fair to either of us. And I had just run out of your _house_! Like some next level morning-after, walk of shame shit.” Peter seemed to realize what he’d said and laughed awkwardly.

“Talk later,” Wade commanded, and Peter jolted to realize that he was once more strapped up with weapons and utility belts and that one Pusheen plush that was hulk colored that Wade had gotten months ago and sometimes safety pinned to his belt buckle. “Run now.” Wade grabbed onto Peter’s hand and yanked at him until Peter was running to keep up with Wade as they high-tailed it out of the building and back into the city.

“What was that even about?” Peter finally thought to ask. He blinked, and realized that he’d been so caught up in apologizing to Wade that he never even questioned the situation. “Why were you chained down?”

Wade clapped a hand over his face. “Why are you like this?”

Peter lengthened his stride so he could be even with Wade. Wade had longer legs, but Peter had more strength and stamina. Proportionate to a Spider. “I’ve been shitty lately,” Peter admitted, even as they ran. “I probably said some stupid shit that night I was drunk on that rooftop, and then I was embarrassed so I might have a little bit avoided you for a hot minute? And then I was too busy trying to apologize I didn’t think to ask _why were you strapped to that table_?”

“You _have_ been a little shitty,” Wade admitted, “but nothing too bad. I’ve done way worse to you Baby Boy. I mean, probably. I don’t always remember how I screw my life up. It’s all kinda rumpled and jumbled and whatever up there all the time.” He thunked his middle finger against his temple twice.

Peter blinked. “So, I’m going to return to that line of thought later, but _why were you strapped to a table_?”

Wade shrugged. “Some douche-canoe wanted to do some science-y shit to figure out why yours truly never kicks the can. So he got all cattle prod happy on my spine, I wake up in fucking district 13 or some shit with Thunder-cocks Ross telling me I’m serving my country, like _hello_ , asshat, I’m Canadian!”

Peter stopped so suddenly Wade was yanked backwards by the grip he had on Peter’s hand. “He _kidnapped_ you?” Peter growled. He turned around and began walking determinedly back the way they’d come. “I’m going back there to show him a piece of my mind.”

“No worries, Baby Boy,” Wade said, and his voice dipped a little, like he was trying to be comforting but couldn’t quite pull it off. “Last time I saw old Thunder-dick he had this gnarly arterial spray going on all up in his neck and I’m pretty sure, if he isn’t dead, he’s at least severely injured and in a hospital.”

“So why did we run?” Peter asked, stopping. “Why were in such a rush to get out?”

Wade shrugged. “Mostly because while I was gathering my shit I planted a bomb and I didn’t want your pretty lil’ face anywhere near that building when it—”

A large explosion rocked the street. Alarms went off, cars driving past screeched to a halt, vendors stepped out from their awnings to look around in curiosity. Wade tightened his grip on Peter’s hand and pulled again till they were running once more.

“Oh,” Peter said breathlessly, “well that’s—” he swallowed, “—something.”

“Oh shut up,” Wade advised. “Does that mean you’re talking to me again?”

Peter blinked. “Yes. Of course. Sorry, again, I—”

“No, it’s fine,” Wade said and he sounded, oddly enough, like he meant it completely. “A month isn’t too long. I’m just glad because to tell you the truth, Baby Boy? I didn’t really like the idea of attending Stark’s New Year’s Eve soiree all by my lonesome. You’d at least make it _interesting_. Everyone else there is going to be so _boring_.”

Peter thought back to Foggy Nelson, renowned lawyer, rolling on the floor in a cloud of Doritos, and of Natasha Romanoff and Pepper Potts planning to take over the world, and could not imagine last year’s New Year’s Eve Party being considered anything even _approaching_ boring. 

“You _are_ going, right?” Wade asked. “’Cause if you’re not going than what’s even the point?”

A day ago he hadn’t been sure if he could ever stand going to another one of Tony’s parties again. Today he didn’t even think. “I’ll go,” Peter said, and couldn’t find it in himself to feel bad about it.

“Good,” Wade said, “I was worried. Minorly worried. Not, like, stay up all night worried. But I _was_ worried, Web-head, because of all that weird shit you were spouting on that rooftop when you were wasted out of your brain.”

Peter winced. “Oh, yeah, and sorry about that. Thanks for taking care of me and my drunk ass, but sorry all the same.”

Wade shrugged. “Nothin’ to apologize for. You were fine except for that you weren’t making any sense.”

“I don’t remember it,” Peter admitted. “I woke up the next morning, and I _knew_ I’d spoken to you, said some weird stuff probably, but I couldn’t remember anything I’d actually said.”

Wade gave Peter a long searching look, and then shrugged. “That’s fine. You weren’t making much sense, but you never do.” He grinned, wide-mouthed beneath his mask, down at Peter.

“Rude!” Peter snapped and stuck out his tongue, which was a failure because, yes, the mask, and Wade laughed at him.

But that was ok. Things were back to normal. Or, well, as normal as it ever got around the two of them.


	11. December Thirty-First

New Year’s Eve

Peter's heart was in his throat and his fingers couldn't help but drum against the side of his spandex-wrapped thighs as he walked through the hall leading to the party. He hadn't used the window this time, though he still kept his mask pulled low. He'd come earlier in the day, dressed in his holey jeans and green beanie, his civvies, with his suit in a messenger bag thrown over one shoulder. Tony had a box of the Avenger Calendars he wanted to give Peter. A tip, Tony had said, or a gift. Whatever. Don't make it a _thing_ , Parker.

So Peter had come, and had stayed, chatting with Tony and Pepper about doing some more shoots, promotional stuff for the Avengers and for Stark Industries. It was, wow, actually. Very wow. This would be amazing. Maybe, in a few months he could finally buy himself that new electron microscope he'd been eyeing since it came out, but had never had nearly enough in his wallet to even consider it. And maybe he'd get to pay off some of his student loans too.

And when Pepper had left to start getting ready, Tony said that Peter could go change in his workshop and join the party when he was ready. No pressure.

Getting dressed hadn't taken long. Convincing himself to just suck it up and join the party took a while longer. But he finally did convince himself, so he walked the maze of elevators and halls, led by an ever-helpful Jarvis, up to the communal living room where the party was already in full swing.

Wanda and Matt Murdock were having a serious conversation that sounded like the merits of goldfish versus popcorn as movie snacks. Sam Wilson and Foggy Nelson were having a chicken fight, perched on Thor's and Natasha's shoulders respectively. Clint was swilling champagne like it was going out of style, while listening earnestly as Vision and a bland-looking man in a simple business suit debated inter-planetary relationships. And then there, across the room, an unopened bottle of wine dangling from his fingertips, was Wade.

Wade turned slightly and caught sight of Peter. "Spidey!" the man shouted and strode forward, pushing heroes and guests alike out of his way to get to Peter faster. "I thought you'd never show up," Wade complained, and then swung the wine bottle up and pointed the base at Peter's face. "I saved this bottle to share just with you, my little arachni-friend. Now we can finally pop it open."

Peter grinned, and his shoulder relaxed a little. With Wade next to him he could barely remember his nerves. "You know, Wade," Peter said a little apologetically, "I'm not sure I actually want to imbibe tonight. It seems I don't have a great track record with my actions while drunk. As you well know," Peter added with mock-chiding.

"I _do_ know," Wade agreed, "and I agree, my little bean sprout. I too remember your drunk ass rambling nonsense on that roof, which is why tonight I brought this for us." He turned the bottle so the label was facing Peter, and Peter realized he'd been wrong. It wasn't wine at all. It was sparkling grape juice.

"Fancy," Peter praised. “Now let's get some fancy ‘sham-pa-guh-nee’ glasses to match."

"Hells no, Baby Boy," Wade said. "We are really, very classy 'round here, and I won't hear anything about us doing anything other than drinking straight from the bottle."

Peter laughed. "Here, here!"

Wade twisted off the top and raised the bottle up for a toast. "For the New Year! Let it be even awesomer than the last one. And for this party, may it stay party-tastic and not crash and burn." He tipped the bottle back and took a long swig.

Peter snorted. "Since when have any of Tony's parties been anything other than hoppin'?"

Wade handed the bottle over to Peter who took an equally obnoxious swig. "I don't know," Wade said with a shrug. "I'm not exactly the most knowledgeable about Stark's parties. Never been to one."

This stopped Peter short. He paused bringing the bottle down from his mouth. He frowned. He frowned harder. "Yes you have."

Wade shook his head and snagged the bottle back from Peter's slack grip. "Nah. Been invited a few times, sure, but I never actually showed up. Figured it'd be full of goody two shoes being goody two shoes." He gazed across the room, eyes stopping to rest on Tony Stark and James Rhodes arm-wrestling, a shot of vodka precariously perched on each of their heads. "It's good to see I was wrong. I was worried we'd have to ditch this place and find our own entertainment." He bumped Peter's hip with his own, and this roused Peter.

"No," Peter objected. "You've definitely been to a party here. I was with you!"

Wade shook his head in obvious, genuine confusion. "No, I don't think so. Maybe you're thinking of a different shindig? You ever been to one of Xavier's barbecues? Or maybe it was someone else you saw at a Stark party?"

Peter's answering laugh was short and cold. "No. It was definitely you, and it was definitely here. This is not up for debate. You were here at last year's New Year's Eve party."

"No I wasn't," Wade said simply.

"Yes you _were_ ," Peter retorted getting increasingly upset, confused, and something else that felt uncomfortably like dread, that seeped deep into his bones.

Wade sighed. "Listen. I'm pretty sure I was in New Orleans on New Year’s last year. I couldn't have been here."

Peter's mind conjured up the image of Wade in his bed, Wade's lips on his as midnight struck, his empty bed the morning after. It occurred to him that they weren't alone, and if he wanted to have this conversation somewhere they wouldn't be overheard they'd have to take it somewhere else. He grabbed Wade's arm and pulled him off into an empty hall that Peter knew had a nook around the corner that no one would go looking for him in.

Something occurred to Peter as they walked. "What do you mean you're _pretty sure_? And also, no you weren't! You were _here_!"

Wade rubbed his head, the pressure of his fingers warping the way his mask hugged his face, causing the cloth to ride up where it was already pulled above his lips to allow him to drink. "I definitely wasn't here. But I can't be _positive_ I was in Louisiana either. I got into some kind of fight, you know how it goes, Web-head." They reached the nook, a shadowed corner with an armchair they both ignored and a ficus that Peter ripped a bit off of and started shredding almost subconsciously.

“No I _don’t_ know how it goes,” Peter objected, staring at the way the shadows almost erased Wade, gave him a feeling of impersonality that Peter didn’t like, “Why don’t you tell me?”

Wade shrugged. “I musta been in some kinda fight. One that got me good, right here,” he trailed his fingertips across his the right half of his skull, above his ear, and then down over his eye. “I woke up, suit shredded and bloody, chained to the underside of a train. I don’t remember who shot me or where I was going or anything.” He shrugged again, and Peter shuddered to realize how blasé he’d sounded about the whole thing. “It happens sometimes. Comes with the territory.”

“So you don’t remember New Year’s Eve. At all.” It came out flat, dead. Not exactly a question. Wade answered anyway.

“Not a jot. I remember Christmas. I remember Boxing Day when I shot all those pigeons. And then the train on January second. But I woke up in Louisiana. Therefore I decree that I couldn’t have been in New York on New Year’s Eve.”

“Trains move, you _idiot_ ,” Peter said, with emphasis but not feeling. This, this was not something he’d thought was an option. It had been so obvious to Peter that Wade had just wanted things to return to normal after their hook-up, he never thought to question why Wade never mentioned it. Never. He just slapped his own label, his own solution on the problem and let it just exist there in purgatory because he _never fucking asked_.

Peter groaned and buried his head in his hands. “So you don’t remember. This whole time I thought you didn’t care, but you just honestly didn’t remember _anything_.”

“Didn’t remember _what_?” Wade asked, starting to sound actually miffed. “Last New Year’s? What exactly ‘supposedly’ happened that was so important to make you think I was where you say I was?”

“You were here. I know you were here. Ask literally anybody, and they will tell you. You were here. With me. At least you were until we got completely shitfaced and I took you home.”

Wade quirked his head to the side. “Took me home?” His expression cleared, and with it came a little awe. “Took me _home_?” He asked, his pitch rising. “Seriously? Are you saying what I think you’re saying? Please tell me—”

Peter could have laughed at how excited Wade looked, how the man practically vibrated in place, and he would have, if his entire world wasn’t tilting 135 degrees to the side. “We had sex,” Peter clarified. “I swung us back to my house, the best drunk-driving I’ve ever done, didn’t kill us even once. And then we had world-shattering sex. And then I woke up the next morning and you were gone. No note, no nothing. And then radio silence for a month and a half.”

Wade looked stricken, and the shadows across his face made him look worse. Like a black and white movie. Melancholy but in a sad, repressed-era sort of way. “I was just gone?” He asked, voice small.

“I figured,” Peter started, stopped, took a deep breath, and then started again. “I figured that sober-Wade probably wasn’t pleased with drunk-Wade’s decisions and you left before I could start asking any pesky questions about relationships. I got the hint loud and clear.” Peter cleared his throat, and when he spoke again his voice was tight. “At least I thought I did.”

“I left you,” Wade whispered, sounding aghast and almost disgusted with himself. “Why the fuck would I ever leave you? You’re—” he gestured to the entirety of Peter, “perfection.”

Something in Peter unstuck, and suddenly the world was warm and made of thousands of flitting fireflies glowing and spiraling through Peter. He grinned.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” is what Peter’s mouth said, while his brain was thinking, _I want to spend the rest of my life with you, you beautiful excuse for a human being_.

“Buy why?” Wade asked, still stuck in a loop. “Why leave?”

Peter thought, at this point, that this was a non-issue. Wade had called him perfection. Sure, it wasn’t a love declaration, but it was pretty darned close. Maybe Tony was right after all.

“I just figured I’d scared you off,” Peter said vaguely. He’d really rather go forward, see if maybe Wade wanted to start something, something that would light Peter’s heart for a millennia, so he was trying to find something to say, something like an answer, that would let Wade focus on more important things. “I tried to take my mask off, you wouldn’t let me. I figured it was because you didn’t want to be too close. Maybe that jump into something more serious scared you off.”

Even wearing the mask, Peter could feel when Wade’s eyes settled on him with weight. “You wanted to take off your mask? To show me your face?”

“And my name,” Peter added.

“And I wouldn’t let you, obviously!” Wade practically screeched. “And then I left you! I must have been out of my damn mind! You, the most beautiful creature on the planet, my soulmate, father of my children! And I walked away!”

“You’re not surprised about the whole identity thing?” Peter asked.

“Of course I am. You’re very careful about your identity. In all my time knowing you, you’ve only ever let in Tony mother-flippin’ Stark.” Wade groaned, deep, and with the most dramatic of agonies, “And you’d tried to show me first! And I didn’t let you! And then I _forgot_!”

“I _mean_ ,” Peter said, trying to be the sane one here, for once, “that you weren’t surprised you didn’t let me take my mask off.”

“Duh,” Wade said dismissively. “That’s just drunk bff etiquette. Nothing that you could have regretted the next morning.”

“And you didn’t think sex was on that list?” Peter asked, an eyebrow that Wade couldn’t see raised.

“One, I don’t have any memories, so I don’t know. And on a side note I just realized that I’ve _already had sex with you! The most beautiful of people and the god to whom I want to devote my every waking moment! And I don’t remember any of it!_ I’m so upset Spidey. I’m going to start crying. And two, if I know myself at all, I probably figured that if you instigated sex, and it was definitely you, Spider-babe.” (Peter’s heart flipped) “I would not have ever imagined that was in my future. I figured if you instigated sex you’d probably already been thinking about it, alcohol just lowers inhibitions, but taking your identity while drunk might have pissed you off later because you wouldn’t have meant to do that.” He looked deep into Peter’s eyes, and grasped his hands, forcing Peter to let the shredded greenery fall to the floor. “I would definitely have brought it up morning after, asked if I could see your pretty face. I’d have to have asked. Once you were no longer all wooey.”

Peter felt himself melting, his heart overflowing in molten love.

“So,” Peter said, ignoring how gooey and romantic and gross he was probably acting and was definitely feeling, “let’s apply the same process to the leaving thing, ay?”

“Process?” Wade asked.

“Like, scientifically. Very ordered. Or, I mean, not really, but I try.”

Wade grinned at him. “Alright, geek-boy. Let’s science this out.”

“If you _did_ sleep with me—”

“—which I did,” Wade pointed out.

“And you remembered. Or let’s say you sleep with me for the first time. You, I don’t know, wake up before me. What do you do?”

Wade lit up, his smile seeming to push away the shadows. Still, in this dark place it felt easier to talk, to let out his wants, and it felt easier, hidden in the shadows, to believe Wade. “Breakfast!” he exclaimed, “I would have made you breakfast.” And then, with a timid smile, but one that was courageous all the same, he added, “I still will. I’ll make you breakfast tomorrow.”

Peter’s returning smile bordered on luminescent. “I’d love that.” He frowned then, thinking. “You wouldn’t have been able to make me breakfast,” Peter said slowly, “I don’t really keep any cooking stuff in my house. Certainly nothing for breakfast.”

“Then I would have gone out to get you something,” Wade said without a second thought. 

“And you did,” Peter said, confident in his revelation, “and along the way something happened, something involving a fight, getting your memories blown away along with your brains, and getting trapped under a train.”

Wade beamed. “Sounds about right to me.”

Peter held out a hand. “Well then, now that that’s sorted out, how would you like to spend tonight with me?”

“How about forever?” Wade negotiated and laid his hand over Peter’s.

Peter beamed.

“My name, by the way,” Peter said, “and my face.”

“We can wait,” Wade started, and then before he could make an argument, and before Peter could rethink anything, Peter pulled off his mask.

It was dark in this nook full of shadows, but Peter didn’t doubt that Wade was drinking him in. “You’re gorgeous,” Wade said, like a gift.

“I’m actually Peter,” Peter said, and Wade guffawed.

“You’re that photographer from Stark’s. And you’re a hottie who likes dad jokes,” Wade said. “No wonder I’m in love with you.”

The L-word. The elusive emotion. How did Peter go a year trying to block himself from even _thinking_ those four letters, and then have Wade say it so easily?

“I love you too,” Peter said and oh, that’s how. 

Peter pulled the mask back on, but for once it felt less like a barrier and more like just another layer of his own skin, another facet of Peter.

Together they left the shadowy nook with the unused armchair and the much-abused ficus, and made their way back to the very loud very bright party. Foggy Nelson was once more beneath a table, this time swimming through what looked to be a pile of popcorn and goldfish.

“See?” said Matt Murdock, who was sitting beside Foggy and systematically sifting goldfish back onto Foggy’s body whenever any fell off. “Goldfish are obviously superior.”

“Murdock,” a very drunk Wanda said from a nearby couch, where she was laying upside down, her feet hooked over the backrest and her head almost touching the floor. “Your argument is biased. Popcorn is superior during a movie. This is not a movie. This is a lawyer.”

“I’m a lawyer,” Matt objected.

“And you’re not a movie,” Foggy added helpfully, “but I still like your goldfish.”

Peter and Wade walked past them.

Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, and Pepper Potts were playing a version of monopoly that Peter had never seen before, and he was pretty sure that was because they were cheating. Pepper was winning pretty fantastically

Thor and Natasha were singing ballads together. Their voices were low but strong, and they neither interrupted the atmosphere nor were they overpowered by it, but their songs seemed to weave throughout the room perfectly.

Peter caught sight of Ant Man on his phone in the corner being chatted at by Rhodes.

Peter and Wade walked past them all.

“Peter,” Tony said, standing in front of the exit. “Wade.”

“Tony,” Peter responded with a smile.

Tony paused. “You’re not drunk this time.”

Peter shook his head.

“You either?” Tony asked nodding towards Wade. 

“No sir!” Wade said happily with a small salute. 

“You taking him home?” Tony asked.

“Yes,” Peter and Wade answered at the same time, and then turned to grin at each other.

Tony let out a long sigh, scrubbed a hand down his face, and then said, “Fine, but I better not be playing therapist this year. In fact, that’s my resolution. No more therapy unless it’s me _getting_ the therapy.”

“Deal,” Peter said.

“As long as I remember this time,” Wade added.

“You will,” Peter said with conviction, because it was the truth. He would.

Tony’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Someday you’re going to explain what that means.”

“Someday,” Peter agreed.

“Tonight,” Tony checked his watch, too expensive by far, “you have twenty-three minutes before it’s midnight, so I’d hustle.”

Peter laughed, and Wade joined in, and they stumbled after each other until they hit open air, and then Peter had his arms around Wade and vice versa, and they were swinging towards Peter’s apartment. 

This time Wade knew Peter’s name and face, knew where they were going, knew he was loved. This time would be different. Though really, not that much had changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who saw my tumblr post and kindly reminded me to post this chapter post haste <3  
> One more Chapter left, guys! An epilogue and an explanation


	12. January First

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to stay with the theme and just have the month/date for the chapter title was super hard because I wanted to name it something dramatic, like "January First, the first day of the year and the first day of the rest of Peter and Wade's life" or "January First, a new beginning" or "January First, a turning point in the rest of forever" but I guess "January First" will have to do.
> 
> Also, I know this was nothing crazy difficult and nothing I had to try very hard at, but I'm like, secretly proud of myself for making this fic exactly 12 chapters long, which is how many months there are in a year, which is the length of this fic. Plz kill me.

New Year’s Day

Peter woke with a warmth pressed against his front and his arms wrapped around a broad chest that moved with the light sound of breathing that Peter couldn’t make his mind stop focusing on. He tightened his grip around Wade and dug his nose into the back of Wade’s neck.

“I hope this means you’re awake, Baby Boy,” Wade said, voice still slow with sleep. “I’ve been laying here for god knows how long and we’ve got things to talk about.”

For a half a second Peter froze, worry and anxiety that he’d misread something last night, done something wrong, and then his arms tightened reflexively around Wade again, and Wade pressed back against Peter’s chest, and his worry dropped away like stones to the bottom of the sea. “This talk better involve asking for a repeat of last night, and better _not_ be a dad joke about not seeing me since last year.”

“More like, not seeing you _cum_ since last year,” Wade said, and then shifted so he could look Peter in the eye and also raise his hand for a high-five. “Up top!”

Peter gave him a reluctant high-five. “I accept the joke, but you don’t _really_ deserve it because most of our orgasms occurred after midnight.”

Wade huffed. “Fine. Be like that. And anyway, no that wasn’t what I wanted to talk about. Not that I don’t want to be all up on your dick as soon as humanly possible. Don’t get me wrong. But I thought I’d spread a little info first.”

“About my dick?” Peter asked, still just groggy enough that that was actually a sentence that came out of his mouth.

“Nuh-uh,” Wade said, and raised his other hand to reveal that he was holding his phone. “I woke up a little early, my little bed bug, and didn’t want to disturb your transcendent slumber, so I thought I’d look into last New Year’s Eve. See if I could hustle up some information about who did the shooting that got my memories gone, gone, bye-bye baby, ya know?”

Peter blinked and then he was fully awake and sat up to get a better look at Wade’s face. Wade didn’t look worried, or scared. Not that he would have, but he didn’t, and that helped ease Peter’s mind a little. “What did you find?”

“Well, it was a little difficult. It turns out that security footage from a year ago is hard to find, especially when you’re hacking from a phone, and by hacking I mean bribing geeks to do my biding. I can’t fucking hack on a smart phone smaller than my hand, who do you think I am?”

“But you found something,” Peter said confidently. “You wouldn’t be delaying sex unless you found something.”

Wade groaned. “Baby Boy, please, I’m trying very hard not to flip you over and ravish you this very second, so if you could maybe not use the S-word?”

Peter leered down at Wade. “I don’t know. I thought you enjoyed me ravishing you pretty thoroughly last ni—”

“And I want to return the favor,” Wade said, leaning up to press soft kisses against Peter’s cheeks, “trust me. But wordy-words first, sexy-sex next, ‘k?”

Peter sighed in a faux put-upon manner, but couldn’t help but smile when he nodded. “Alright, what wordy-words have you got to say? What did your hacker-friends find?”

Wade tilted his phone to show a grainy photograph of a man with a gun, holding a sack protectively behind him, facing off with Wade in his Deadpool get-up. 

“That the guy that shot you?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Peter grabbed the phone and tried to zoom into the guy’s face, but all it did was distort the picture into something unrecognizable. “This is completely unusable.”

“Yeah,” Wade said, grabbing the phone back, “because _you’re_ not a geek-hacker-nerd that I pay very well to get me answers. Anyway, beautiful Ana got me a face _and_ a name after some serious digging and even a motive.” He swiped the photo on his phone and it was replaced by a mug-shot of a blond, scruffy-looking man. “Look at this dick-face that made my memories of my sweetums go poof!”

“So, why?” Peter asked. “You said your hacker got you a motive.”

“It was dumb,” Wade imparted, almost gleefully, “it was so fucking dumb. This little cabbage-fucker was trying to _hold up_ a bakery.” He swiped back to the previous photo. “See this sack? There’s fucking, all sorts of danishes and quiches and what-not in there. He brought a _gun_ to rob a _bakery_ , Petey-pie. This man is one huge moron.”

Peter gave Wade a wry look. “And how exactly did you get shot? If I can follow the implications of this story, you were probably also being a fucking moron.”

“What?” Wade gasped, offended, “there I was, trying to get my sexy little spider something delicious to wake up to, and _I’m_ the one in the wrong?”

Peter settled back against his pillows. “Ok then, tell me what happened from _your_ point of view.” 

“I don’t remember,” Wade said, and then, “duh!”

Peter rolled his eyes. “What did beautiful Ana find, then?”

Wade huffed and pouted for about half a second before giving up. “Fine. Be like that. Apparently this fuck-face robbed the bakery seconds before I stepped in, and he’d taken all the fresh-baked goods, so of course I was pissed. I confronted him in the alley. All I wanted was a couple danishes. And a tart or too. At least according to the bakery-owner who was standing by the back door listening to my conversation with Fuck-Face Von Cabbage-Fucker. But, for some reason that is even beyond my beautiful Ana, the guy refused to give up any of the goods and shot me in the head when I insisted. Probably very politely. The insisting I mean, not the shooting. The shooting was fucking rude.”

Peter laughed beneath his breath. “You lost your memories, confused our relationship, and made everything more complicated for over a year, all because you wouldn’t let a gunman with a bread-fetish just take the danishes.”

“Hush you,” Wade said, and pushed himself up to kiss Peter on the tip of his nose. “The worst part then is that he apparently freaked the fuck out, _dropped the goods_ , and dragged my body to a train yard before chaining me to the bottom of a passenger train headed for New Orleans. I mean, I guess in theory that’s a great way to dispose of a corpse, only no it isn’t. But more importantly he ended up wasting all those baked goods like some sort of _monster_.”

“You’re right,” Peter said, and found himself running his fingers down Wade’s arm, “he’s a monster for wasting pastries, not for shooting my boyfriend in the head.”

“Boyfriend?” Wade asked, uncomfortably quickly.

Peter winced. “Is that too soon? I mean, this is new, really new, but also we’ve _technically_ been a something for a year, so…”

“No,” Wade said emphatically, “No, boyfriend is good. Boyfriend is fine.” He looked star-struck, or moon-struck, or mentally unbalanced in a romantic sort of way which Peter shouldn’t have found as endearing as he did. 

“Well, you did just learn my name yesterday,” Peter said, teasing, “I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to go a little slower.”

“With you, nothing will ever be slow again,” Wade said, and honestly, Peter couldn’t fault him that logic.

“He died,” Wade said after a short pause, apparently apropos of nothing.

“He who?” Peter asked, and slid down so he was laying beside Wade, still letting his fingers trail up and down his arms.

“The bakery-thief. He died in an unrelated robbery a week later. Different bakery. Same attitude. Only this time the baker had a sawed-off shotgun beneath the glass pastry case.”

A bark of laughter punched out of Peter’s throat. “I’m sorry,” Peter said, “that’s just so unexpected.”

“I know,” Wade said. “He should have learned that robbing from bakeries is dangerous business.” 

“Hah,” Peter said, smile growing softer. “Mystery solved I guess.”

“ _That_ mystery is solved at least,” Wade agreed, “but we still have another mystery on our hands.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “And what mystery is that?”

Wade rolled to pin Peter beneath him. “The mystery of why we’re still talking when we could be…”

“Ravishing?” Peter asked with a smirk. He wrapped his arms around Wade’s neck and pulled himself up long enough to press a kiss to Wade’s cheekbone.

Wade grinned. “Yes, Peter, let’s get to ravishing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you! Everyone, thank you all for coming and reading this chapter after chapter. This fic got me through spring, but I think I'll be taking a little break (I mean, who the fuck knows if that's gonna stick what with July 4th coming up) in writing or posting for a while. I've been running on fumes for a few months now, overworking myself in my real career-job-life world. Hopefully everything will slow down around mid august and I'll get more time to write and not stress, but it could take a little longer. We'll see. Thank you again for sticking around, and thank you so, _so_ , much for all of your comments. They buoy me up over and over <3


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